Life is a journey up a spiral staircase; as we grow older we cover the ground covered we have covered before, only higher up; as we look down the winding stair below us we measure our progress by the number of places where we were but no longer are. The journey is both repetitious and progressive; we go both round and upward.

We poets would die of loneliness but for women, and we choose our men friends that we may have somebody to talk about women with. Letter to Olivia Shakespeare, 1936

Never shall a young man, Thrown into despair By those great honey-coloured Ramparts at your ear, Love you for yourself alone And not your yellow hair.

Odor of blood when Christ was slain Made all Platonic tolerance vain And vain all Doric discipline.

Everything in nature is resurrection.

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

Be secret and exult, Because of all things known That is most difficult.