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.

For the world's more full of weeping than you can understand.

I gave what other women gave That stepped out of their clothes But when this soul, its body off Naked to naked goes, He it has found shall find therein What none other knows.

A thought Of that late death took all my heart for speech.

Hearts with one purpose alone/Through summer and winter seem/Enchanted to a stone/To trouble the living stream.

I have grown to believe that there is no dangerous idea, which does not become less dangerous when written out in sincere and careful English.

The creations of a great writer are little more than the moods and passions of his own heart, given surnames and Christian names, and sent to walk the earth.