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

Consume my heart away, sick with desire And fastened to a dying animal It knows not what it is, and gather me Into the artifice of eternity.

I believe when I am in the mood that all nature is full of people whom we cannot see, and that some of these are ugly or grotesque, and some wicked or foolish, but very many beautiful beyond any one we have ever seen, and that these are not far away... and the simple of all times and the wise men of ancient times have seen them and even spoken to them.

The Land of Faery, Where nobody gets old and godly and grave, Where nobody gets old and crafty and wise, Where nobody gets old and bitter of tongue.

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

A man in his own secret meditation / Is lost amid the labyrinth that he has made / In art or politics.

Accursed who brings to light of day the writings I have cast away.