By logic and reason we die hourly; by imagination we live.

Who dreamed that beauty passes like a dream?

Now that my ladder's gone, I must lie down where all my ladders start, In the foul rag-and-bone shop of the heart.

Take, if you must, this little bag of dreams, Unloose the cord, and they will wrap you round.

Come Fairies, take me out of this dull world, for I would ride with you upon the wind and dance upon the mountains like a flame!

And pluck till time and times are done the silver apples of the moon the golden apples of the sun.

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