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My words in her mind: cold polished stones sinking through a quagmire.
He found in the world without as actual what was in his world within as possible.
Poetry, even when apparently most fantastic, is always a revolt against artifice, a revolt, in a sense, against actuality.
Nations have their ego, just like individuals.
Ireland is the old sow that eats her farrow.
The demand that I make of my reader is that he should devote his whole Life to reading my works.
If Ireland is to become a new Ireland she must first become European.
It is a symbol of Irish art. The cracked looking-glass of a servant.
Ireland sober is Ireland stiff.
You forget that the kingdom of heaven suffers violence: and the kingdom of heaven is like a woman.
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