All hatred driven hence, The soul recovers radical innocence And learns at last that it is self-delighting, Self-appeasing, self-affrighting, And that its own sweet will is Heaven's will

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

And pluck till time and times are done the silver apples of the moon the golden apples of the sun.

Who dreamed that beauty passes like a dream?

We are closed in, and the key is turned / On our uncertainty.

The soul of man is of the imperishable substance of the stars!

My father was an angry and impatient teacher and flung the reading book at my head.