Cast your mind on other days that we in coming days may be still the indomitable Irishry.

I am still of opinion that only two topics can be of the least interest to a serious and studious mood - sex and the dead.

The woods of Arcady are dead, And over is their antique joy; Of old the world on dreaming fed Gray Truth is now her painted toy.

The tragedy of sexual intercourse is the perpetual virginity of the soul.

Only that which does not teach, which does not cry out, which does not condescend, which does not explain, is irresistible.

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

Poet and sculptor, do the work, / Nor let the modish painter shirk