The wind blows out of the gates of the day, The wind blows over the lonely of heart, And the lonely of heart is withered away.

I went out to the hazelwood because a fire was in my head.

Land of Heart's Desire Where beauty has no ebb, decay no flood, But joy is wisdom, time an endless song.

Even when the poet seems most himself . . . he is never the bundle of accident and incoherence that sits down to breakfast; he has been reborn as an idea, something intended, complete.

How can the arts overcome the slow dying of men's hearts that we call progress ?

Although our love is waning, let us stand by the lone border of the lake once more, together in that hour of gentleness. When the poor tired child, passion, falls asleep.

Think like a wise man but communicate in the language of the people.