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

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

No man has ever lived that had enough of children's gratitude or woman's love.

Nor law, nor duty bade me fight, Nor public men, nor cheering crowds, A lonely impulse of delight Drove to this tumult in the clouds.

Man can embody truth but he cannot know it.

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

Not a man alive has so much luck that he can play with it.