Take, if you must, this little bag of dreams, Unloose the cord, and they will wrap you round.

Though leaves are many, the root is one; Through all the lying days of my youth I swayed my leaves and flowers in the sun Now I may wither into the truth.

Come Fairies, take me out of this dull world, for I would ride with you upon the wind and dance upon the mountains like a flame!

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

But was there ever dog that praised his fleas?

When two close kindred meet What better than call a dance?.

This melancholy London - I sometimes imagine that the souls of the lost are compelled to walk through its streets perpetually. One feels them passing like a whiff of air.