There is no deformity But saves us from a dream.

The mystical life is at the centre of all that I do and all that I think and all that I write.

Time can but make it easier to be wise / Though now it seems impossible, and so / All that you need is patience.

Why should I blame her that she filled my days With misery, or that she would of late Have taught to ignorant men most violent ways, Or hurled the little streets upon the great, Had they but courage equal to desire? What could have made her peaceful with a mind That nobleness made simple as a fire, With beauty like a tightened bow, a kind That is not natural in an age like this Being high and solitary and most stern? Why, what could she have done, being what she is? Was there another Troy for her to burn?

And what rough beast, its hour come round at last, Slouches toward Bethlehem to be born?

You that would judge me, do not judge alone this book or that, come to this hallowed place where my friends' portraits hang and look thereon; Ireland's history in their lineaments trace; think where man's glory most begins and ends and say my glory was I had such friends.

Joy is of the will which labours, which overcomes obstacles, which knows triumph.