Everything that's lovely is But a brief, dreamy kind of delight.

It seems that I must bid the Muse to pack, / Choose Plato and Plotinus for a friend / Until imagination, ear and eye, / Can be content with argument and deal / In abstract things; or be derided by / A sort of battered kettle at the heel.

It's certain there is no fine thing Since Adam's fall but needs much laboring.

I have found nothing half so good / As my long-planned half solitude, / Where I can sit up half the night / With some friend that has the wit.

Fairies in Ireland are sometimes as big as we are, sometimes bigger, and sometimes, as I have been told, about three feet high.

True love is a discipline in which each divines the secret self of the other and refuses to believe in the mere daily self.

Evil comes to us men of imagination wearing as its mask all the virtues.