Love comes in at the eye.

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

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

Designs in connection with postage stamps and coinage may be described, I think, as the silent ambassadors on national taste.

Though I am old with wandering Through hollow lands and hilly lands, I will find out where she has gone, And kiss her lips and take her hands; And walk among long dappled grass, And pluck till time and times are done The silver apples of the moon, The golden apples of the sun.

The labor of the alchemists, who were called artist in their day, is a befitting comparison for a deliberate change of style.

but one loses, as one grows older, something of the lightness of one's dreams; one begins to take life up in both hands, and to care more for the fruit than the flower, and that is no great loss perhaps.