Take, if you must, this little bag of dreams, Unloose the cord, and they will wrap you round.
An aged man is but a paltry thing, a tattered coat upon a stick, unless soul clap its hands and sing, and louder sing for every tatter in its mortal dress.
Irish poets, learn your trade, sing whatever is well made, scorn the sort now growing up all out of shape from toe to top.
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.
I think you can leave the arts, superior or inferior, to the conscience of mankind.
Life is a long preparation for something that never happens.
There are no strangers here; Only friends you haven’t yet met.
And say my glory was I had such friends.
The light of lights looks always on the motive, not the deed, the shadow of shadows on the deed alone.
We are happy when for everything inside us there is a corresponding something outside us.