To the waters, and the wild, with a Faerie, hand in hand, for the world is more full of weeping . . . than you can understand.
Unwearied still, lover by lover, they paddle in the cold Companionable streams or climb the air; Their hearts have not grown old.
We had fed the heart on fantasies, the heart's grown brutal from the fare, more substance in our enmities than in our love.
What could have made her peaceful with a mind.
Whatever is begotten, born, and dies.
Where blood-begotten spirits come.
Who called me by my name and ran?
Wind shrieked -- and where are they?
Words alone are certain good.
Your mother Eire is always young.
Stared on the horses of the sea, and heard.
That had she done so who can say.
That you have come and dared me to my face?
The dooms of men are in Gods hidden place.
The monstrous crying of wind?
The Stolen Child - Where dips the rocky highland of Sleuth Wood in the lake, there lies a leafy island where flapping herons wake the drowsy water rats; there we've hid our faery vats, full of berrys and of reddest stolen cherries. Come away, O human child! To the waters and the wild with a faery, hand in hand, for the world's more full of weeping than you can understand. Where the wave of moonlight glosses the dim gray sands with light, far off by furthest Rosses we foot it all the night, weaving olden dances, mingling hands and mingling glances till the moon has taken flight; to and fro we leap and chase the frothy bubbles, while the world is full of troubles and anxious in its sleep. Come away, O human child! To the waters and the wild with a faery, hand in hand, for the world's more full of weeping than you can understand. Where the wandering water gushes from the hills above Glen-Car, in pools among the rushes that scarce could bathe a star, we seek for slumbering trout and whispering in their ears give them unquiet dreams; leaning softly out from ferns that drop their tears over the young streams. Come away, O human child! To the waters and the wild with a faery, hand in hand, for the world's more full of weeping than you can understand. Away with us he's going, the solemn-eyed: he'll hear no more the lowing of the calves on the warm hillside or the kettle on the hob sing peace into his breast, or see the brown mice bob round and round the oatmeal chest. For he comes, the human child, to the waters and the wild with a faery, hand in hand, for the world's more full of weeping than he can understand.
The worst thing about some men is that when they are not drunk they are sober.
There is another world, but it is in this one.
This country will not always be an uncomfortable place for a country gentleman to live in, and it is most important that we should keep in this country a certain leisured class. I am afraid that Labor disagrees with me in that. On this matter I am a crusted Tory. I am of the opinion of the ancient Jewish book which says "there is no wisdom without leisure."
Time drops in decay like a candle burnt out. And the mountains and woods have their day, have their day; but, kindly old rout of the fire-born moods, you pass not away.
Together in that hour of gentleness.
Upon a woman won or a woman lost?
We have fallen in the dreams the ever-living breathe on the tarnished mirror of the world, and then smooth out with ivory hands and sigh.
What do we know but that we face one another in this place?