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?

Oh, Love is the crooked thing, there is nobody wise enough to find out all that is in it, for he will be thinking about love til the stars run away and the shadows eaten the moon.

I have drunk ale from the Country of the Young / And weep because I know all things now.

We make out of the quarrel with others, rhetoric, but of the quarrel with ourselves, poetry.

The best lack all conviction, while the worst are full of passionate intensity.

Do not wait to strike till the iron is hot; but make it hot by striking.

I Sing what was lost and dread what was won, / I walk in a battle fought over again.