No woman loves me, no man seeks my help, Because I be not of the things I dream.

Once he said to me in the height of his imperial propaganda, 'Tell those young men in Ireland that this great thing must go on. They say Ireland is not fit for self-government but that is nonsense. It is as fit as any other European country but we cannot grant it.

I will arise and go now, for always night and day I hear lake water lapping...I hear it in the deep heart's core.

All the great masters have understood that there cannot be great art without the little limited life of the fable, which is always better the simpler it is, and the rich, far-wandering, many-imaged life of the half-seen world beyond it.

Its quarrel is not with the past, but with the present, where its elders are so obviously powerful, and no cause seems lost if it seem to threaten that power.

Nor dread nor hope attend A dying animal; A man awaits his end Dreading and hoping all; Many times he died, Many times rose again. A great man in his pride Confronting murderous men Casts derision upon Supersession of breath; He knows death to the bone – Man has created death.

Tradition gives the one thing many shapes.

Come away, O human child: To the waters and the wild with a fairy, hand in hand, For the world's more full of weeping than you can understand.

Where there is nothing, there is God.

There is another world, but it is in this one.

I shall find the dark grow luminous, the void fruitful when I understand I have nothing, that the ringers in the tower have appointed for the hymen of the soul a passing bell.

I shall arise and go to Innisfree.

Let us go forth, the tellers of tales, and seize whatever prey the heart long for, and have no fear.

Ecstasy is from the contemplation of things vaster than the individual and imperfectly seen perhaps, by all those that still live.

Weaving olden dances; mingling hands and mingling glances.

All things can tempt me from this craft of verse.

I balanced all, brought all to mind, the years to come seemed waste of breath, a waste of breath the years behind, in balance with this life, this death.

Round these men stories tended to group themselves, sometimes deserting more ancient heroes for the purpose. Round poets have they gathered especially, for poetry in Ireland has always been mysteriously connected with magic.

While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements grey, I hear it in the deep heart's core.

The creations of a great writer are little more than the moods and passions of his own heart, given surnames and Christian names, and sent to walk the earth.

All things change, save only the fear of change.

The land of fairy, where nobody gets old and godly and grave, where nobody gets old and crafty and wise, where nobody gets old and bitter of tongue.

I only write it now because I have grown to believe that there is no dangerous idea, which does not become less dangerous when written out in sincere and careful English.

I will make rigid my roots and branches. It is not now my turn to burst into leaves and flowers.

Talent perceives differences; genius, unity.

Jonathan Swift made a soul for the gentlemen of this city by hating his neighbor as himself.

On Midsummer Eve, when the bonfires are lighted on every hill in honour of St. John, the fairies are at their gayest, and sometime steal away beautiful mortals to be their brides.

I passed a little further on and heard a peacock say: Who made the grass and made the worms and made my feathers gay, He is a monstrous peacock, and He waveth all the night His languid tail above us, lit with myriad spots of light.

I no longer went to church as a regular habit, but go I sometimes did, for one Sunday morning I saw these words painted on a board in the porch: 'The congregation are requested to kneel during prayers; the kneelers are afterwards to be hung upon pegs provided for the purpose.

For nothing can be sole or whole. That has not been rent.

We taste and feel and see the truth. We do not reason ourselves into it.

The only business of the head in the world is to bow a ceaseless obeisance to the heart.

In dreams begin responsibility.

Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold.

I hear water lapping with low sound by the shore. ...I hear it in the deep heart's core.

Accursed who brings to light of day the writings I have cast away.

And yet the wise are of opinion that wherever man is, the dark powers who would feed his rapacities are there too, no less than the bright beings who store their honey in the cells of his heart, and the twilight beings who flit hither and thither, and that they encompass him with a passionate and melancholy multitude.

A Drinking Song 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 I sigh.

Now as to magic. It is surely absurd to hold me weak or otherwise because I choose to persist in a study which I decided deliberately four or five years ago to make, next to my poetry, the most important pursuit of my life…If I had not made magic my constant study I could not have written a single word of my Blake book.

To keep happy seems like walking on stilts. When one is tired, one falls off.

What is literature but the expression of moods by the vehicle of symbol and incident?

Think like a wise man but communicate in the language of the people.

Love comes in at the eye.

We make out of the quarrel with others, rhetoric, but of the quarrel with ourselves, poetry.

My wretched dragon is perplexed.

Choose your companions from the best; Who draws a bucket with the rest soon topples down the hill.

What can be explained is not poetry.

He was a great teller of tales, and unlike our common romancers, knew how to empty heaven, hell, and purgatory, faeryland and earth, to people his stories.

Out of Ireland have we come, great hatred, little room, maimed us at the start. I carry from my mother's womb a fanatic heart.