For the good are always the merry, / Save by an evil chance,/ And the merry love the fiddle,/ And the merry love to dance: / And when the folk there spy me,/ They will all come up to me, / With,”Here is the fiddler of Dooney!” / And dance like a wave of the sea.

In dreams begin responsibilitiy.

A pity beyond all telling is hid in the heart of love.

Where there is nothing, there is God.

When you are old and gray and full of sleep, and nodding by the fire, take down this book and slowly read, and dream of the soft look your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep.

The uncontrollable mystery on the bestial floor.

The years like great black oxen tread the world, and God, the herdsman goads them on behind, and I am broken by their passing feet.