Nothing but stillness can remain when hearts are full Of their own sweetness, bodies of their loveliness.

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

For how can you compete Being honour bred, with one Who, were it proved he lies, Were neither shamed in his own Nor in his neighbour's eyes?

But Love has pitched his mansion in the place of excrement. For nothing can be sole or whole that has not been rent.

All things uncomely and broken, all things worn out and old The cry of a child by the roadway, the creak of a lumbering cart, The heavy steps of the plowman, splashing the wintry mold, Are wronging your image that blossoms a rose in the deeps of my heart.

The only enemy of innocence and beauty is time.

I have drunk ale from the Country of the Young / And weep because I know all things now.