What is literature but the expression of moods by the vehicle of symbol and incident?

All the great masters have understood that there cannot be great art without the little limited life of the fable, which is always better the simpler it is, and the rich, far-wandering, many-imaged life of the half-seen world beyond it

Out of Ireland have we come, great hatred, little room, maimed us at the start. I carry from my mother's womb a fanatic heart.

I whispered, 'I am too young,' and then, 'I am old enough'; wherefore I threw a penny to find out if I might love.

And many a poor man that has roved Loved and thought himself beloved From a glad kindness cannot take his eyes.

Nor dread nor hope attend a dying animal; a man awaits his end dreading and hoping all.

For Death who takes what man would keep, Leaves what man would lose.