Labor is blossoming or dancing where The body is not bruised to pleasure soul, Nor beauty born out of its own despair, Nor blear-eyed wisdom out of midnight oil. O chestnut tree, great-rooted blossomer, Are you the leaf, the blossom or the bole? O body swayed to music, O brightening glance How can we know the dancer from the dance?

The uncontrollable mystery on the bestial floor.

It's certain there are trout somewhere - And maybe I shall take a trout - but I do not seem to care.

Everything in nature is resurrection.

Our own acts are isolated and one act does not buy absolution for another.

I think it better that in times like these a poet's mouth be silent, for in truth we have no gift to set a statesman right.

A daughter of a King of Ireland, heard A voice singing on a May Eve like this, And followed half awake and half asleep, Until she came into the Land of Faery, Where nobody gets old and godly and grave, Where nobody gets old and crafty and wise, Where nobody gets old and bitter of tongue. And she is still there, busied with a dance Deep in the dewy shadow of a wood, Or where stars walk upon a mountain-top.