That is no country for old men. The young In one another's arms, birds in the trees - Those dying generations-at their song, The salmon-falls, the mackerel-crowded seas, Fish, flesh, or fowl, commend all summer long Whatever is begotten, born, and dies. Caught in that sensual music all neglect Monuments of unaging intellect.

Style, personality - deliberately adopted and therefore a mask - is the only escape from the hot-faced bargainers and money-changers.

Too long a sacrifice can make a stone of the heart. O when may it suffice?

What can I but enumerate old themes?

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

It seems to me that love, if it is fine, is essentially a discipline.

Wine comes in at the mouth And love comes in at the eye; That's all we shall know for truth Before we grow old and die.