Irish Poet, Playwright
"Wine comes in at the mouth and love comes in at the eye; that's all we shall know for truth before we grow old and die. I lift the glass to my mouth, I look at you, and sigh."
"with some appropriate commentary on each; until imagination brought a fitter welcome; but a thought of that late death took all my heart for speech."
"Words are always getting conventionalized to some secondary meaning. It is one of the works of poetry to take the truants in custody and bring them back to their right senses."
"World has ever known what love is, or looked into his eyes, for Eros alone of divinities is altogether a spirit."
"You have accused me of upsetting order by my free drinks, and I have showed you that there is a more dreadful fermentation in the Sermon on the Mount than in my beer-barrels. Christ thought it in the irresponsibility of His omnipotence."
"You know what the Englishman's idea of compromise is? He says, Some people say there is a God. Some people say there is no God. The truth probably lies somewhere between these two statements."
"You say, as I have often given tongue in praise of what another's said or sung, 'twere politic to do the like by these; but was there ever a dog that praised his fleas?"
"You that would judge me, do not judge alone this book or that, come to this allowed place where my friends' portraits hang and look thereon; Ireland's history in their lineaments trace; think where man's glory most begins and ends and say my glory was I had such friends."
"You think it horrible that lust and rage should dance attention upon my old age; they were not such a plague when I was young; what else have I to spur me into song?"
"Your eyes, which never quite was mine, bent in sorrow for the eyelids veil, because our love chisels. Then she will say: while it is true that our love chisels, let us once again on a lonely coast of the lake, side by side, in the hour of great gentleness, when weary child, passion, falls asleep, how far are the stars. The first kiss as far. And how old my heart! Thoughtfully walked through withered leaves, and then he, holding her hand in his hand, he said slowly: think of these migratory heart, our heart, the soul of passion sometimes. Forests have been around. And yellow leaves how pale meteors by dusk fell. The old, lame rabbit limping along the path. Autumn was upon them. And here stood once again on a lonely coast of the lake. Turning, he saw the dead leaves - as her eyes moist - in silence collected she threw on their breasts and hair. Do not cry, that we grow weary. Others love to meet. I still hate and love, without limit and regret. Before us lies all eternity. Our souls are love and continual farewell."