Some burn damp faggots, others may consume The entire combustible world in one small room.

An intellectual hate is the worst.

By logic and reason we die hourly; by imagination we live.

We have lit upon the gentle, sensitive mind And lost the old nonchalance of the hand; Whether we have chosen chisel, pen or brush, We are but critics, or but half create.

I am content to live it all again And yet again, if it be life to pitch Into the frog-spawn of a blind man's ditch.

Irish poets, learn your trade, sing whatever is well made, scorn the sort now growing up all out of shape from toe to top.

The living can assist the imagination of the dead.