Quotes of All Topics . Occasions . Authors
for never yet Has lover lived, but longed to wive Like them that are no more alive.
One man loved the pilgrim soul in you, And loved the sorrows of your changing face.
Many ingenious lovely things are gone / That seemed sheer miracle to the multitude.
I think you can leave the arts, superior or inferior, to the conscience of mankind.
I Sing what was lost and dread what was won, / I walk in a battle fought over again.
What is literature but the expression of moods by the vehicle of symbol and incident?
How far away the stars seem, and how far is our first kiss, and ah, how old my heart.
O heart! O heart! if she'd but turn her head You'd know the folly of being comforted.
The world being illusive, one must be deluded in some way if one is to triumph in it.
If what I say resonates with you, it's merely because we're branches of the same tree.
Sometimes my feet are tired and my hands are quiet, but there is no quiet in my heart.
Think where man's glory most begins and ends, and say my glory was I had such friends.
Locke sank into a swoon; The Garden died; God took the spinning-jenny Out of his side.
Test every work of intellect or faith and everything that your own hands have wrought.
Nor dread nor hope attend a dying animal; a man awaits his end dreading and hoping all.
What can be shown? What true love be? All could be known or shown If Time were but gone.
I have drunk ale from the Country of the Young / And weep because I know all things now.
Before me floats an image, man or shade, / Shade more than man, more image than a shade.
The only business of the head in the world is to bow a ceaseless obeisance to the heart.
And what rough beast, its hour come round at last, Slouches toward Bethlehem to be born?
I see a schoolboy when I think of him, With face and nose pressed to a sweet-shop window.
Cast your mind on other days that we in coming days may be still the indomitable Irishry.
We are happy when for everything inside us there is a corresponding something outside us.
People are responsible for their opinions, but Providence is responsible for their morals.
I believe... that our memories are part of one great memory, the memory of Nature herself.
Some burn damp faggots, others may consume The entire combustible world in one small room.
Players and painted stage took all my love, And not those things that they were emblems of.
Everything exists, everything is true and the earth is just a bit of dust beneath our feet.
We make out of the quarrel with others, rhetoric, but of the quarrel with ourselves, poetry.
For he would be thinking of love Till the stars had run away And the shadows eaten the moon.
Take, if you must, this little bag of dreams, Unloose the cord, and they will wrap you round.
Those men that in their writings are most wise Own nothing but their blind, stupefied hearts.
O what fine thought we had because we thought that the worst rogues and rascals had died out.
God spreads the heavens above us like great wings, And gives a little round of deeds and days.
The women that I picked spoke sweet and low And yet gave tongue. "Hound voices" were they all.
The mystical life is at the centre of all that I do and all that I think and all that I write.
It is love that I am seeking for, But of a beautiful, unheard-of kind That is not in the world.
There midnight's all a glimmer, and noon a purple glow, And evening full of the linnet's wings.
And learn that the best thing is To change my loves while dancing And pay but a kiss for a kiss.
One should not lose one's temper unless one is certain of getting more and more angry to the end.
There's keen delight in what we have: The rattle of pebbles on the shore Under the receding wave.
What if I bade you leave The cavern of the mind? There's better exercise In the sunlight and wind.
Choose your companions from the best; Who draws a bucket with the rest soon topples down the hill.
And pluck till time and times are done the silver apples of the moon the golden apples of the sun.
I say that Roger Casement Did what he had to do, He died upon the gallows But that is nothing new.
Odor of blood when Christ was slain Made all Platonic tolerance vain And vain all Doric discipline.
O heart, we are old; The living beauty is for younger men: We cannot pay its tribute of wild tears.
We only believe in those thoughts which have been conceived not in the brain but in the whole body.
Shakespearean fish swam the sea, far away from land; Romantic fish swam in nets coming to the hand.
Hurrah for revolution and cannon come again! The beggars have changed places, but the lash goes on.