What shall I do with this absurdity- O heart, O troubled heart-this caricature, Decrepit age that has been tied to me As to a dog's tail? Never had I more Excited, passionate, fantastical Imagination, nor an ear and eye That more expected the impossible.

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

Grant me an old man's frenzy, Myself must I remake Till I am Timon and Lear Or that William Blake Who beat upon the wall Till Truth obeyed his call.

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

I wonder anybody does anything at Oxford but dream and remember

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.

Some burn damp faggots, others may consume The entire combustible world in one small room.