Our words must seem to be inevitable.

And many a poor man that has roved Loved and thought himself beloved From a glad kindness cannot take his eyes.

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.

I am content to live it all again And yet again, if it be life to pitch Into the frog-spawn of a blind man's ditch.

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

John Synge, I and Augusta Gregory, thought All that we did, all that we said or sang Must come from contact with the soil, from that Contact everything Antaeus-like grew strong.

I hear lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore; While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements gray, I hear it in the deep heart's core.