Joy is of the will which labours, which overcomes obstacles, which knows triumph.

Let us go forth, the tellers of tales, and seize whatever prey the heart long for, and have no fear. Everything exists, everything is true, and the earth is only a little dust under our feet.

The Irishman sustains himself during brief periods of joy by the knowledge that tragedy is just around the corner.

I will arise and go now, for always night and day I hear lake water lapping...I hear it in the deep heart's core.

The Land of Faery, Where nobody gets old and godly and grave, Where nobody gets old and crafty and wise, Where nobody gets old and bitter of tongue.

Things thought too long can be no longer thought, For beauty dies of beauty, worth of worth, And ancient lineaments are blotted out.

It's certain there is no fine thing Since Adam's fall but needs much laboring.