This melancholy London - I sometimes imagine that the souls of the lost are compelled to walk through its streets perpetually. One feels them passing like a whiff of air.

but one loses, as one grows older, something of the lightness of one's dreams; one begins to take life up in both hands, and to care more for the fruit than the flower, and that is no great loss perhaps.

The true poet is all the time a visionary and whether with friends or not, as much alone as a man on his death bed.

The pain others give passes away in their later kindness, but that of our own blunders, especially when they hurt our vanity, never passes away

For Death who takes what man would keep, Leaves what man would lose.

Sometimes my feet are tired and my hands are quiet, but there is no quiet in my heart.

Being Irish, he had an abiding sense of tragedy, which sustained him through temporary periods of joy.