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

Let us go forth, the tellers of tales, and seize whatever prey the heart long for, and have no fear. Everything exists, everything is true, and the earth is only a little dust under our feet.

What man does not understand, he fears; and what he fears, he tends to destroy.

Whatever flames upon the night Man's own resinous heart has fed.

We cannot doubt that barbaric people receive such influences more visibly and obviously, and in all likelihood more easily and fully than we do, for our life in cities, which deafens or kills the passive meditative life, and our education that enlarges the separated, self-moving mind, have made our souls less sensitive.

I agree about Shaw - he is haunted by the mystery he flouts. He is an atheist who trembles in the haunted corridor.

Who dreamed that beauty passes like a dream?