I think all happiness depends on the energy to assume the mask of some other life, on a re-birth as something not one's self.

Whence had they come The hand and lash that beat down frigid Rome? What sacred drama through her body heaved When world-transforming Charlemagne was conceived?

The fascination of what's difficult Has dried the sap out of my veins, and rent Spontaneous joy and natural content Out of my heart.

I have no question: It is enough, I know what fixed the station Of star and cloud. And knowing all, I cry. . . .

Like a long-legged fly upon the stream / His mind moves upon silence.

You that would judge me, do not judge alone this book or that, come to this hallowed place where my friends' portraits hang and look thereon; Ireland's history in their lineaments trace; think where man's glory most begins and ends and say my glory was I had such friends.

Tread softly, for you tread on my dreams