The labor of the alchemists, who were called artist in their day, is a befitting comparison for a deliberate change of style.

There midnight's all a glimmer, and noon a purple glow, And evening full of the linnet's wings.

I have read somewhere that in the Emperor's palace at Byzantium was a tree made of gold and silver, and artificial birds that sang.

Books are but waste paper unless we spend in action the wisdom we get from thought - asleep. When we are weary of the living, we may repair to the dead, who have nothing of peevishness, pride, or design in their conversation.

The winds that awakened the stars Are blowing through my blood.

The years like great black oxen tread the world, and God, the herdsman goads them on behind, and I am broken by their passing feet.

Irish poets, learn your trade, sing whatever is well made, scorn the sort now growing up all out of shape from toe to top.