This melancholy London - I sometimes imagine that the souls of the lost are compelled to walk through its streets perpetually. One feels them passing like a whiff of air.
Accursed who brings to light of day the writings I have cast away.
Irish poets, learn your trade, sing whatever is well made, scorn the sort now growing up all out of shape from toe to top.
Cast your mind on other days that we in coming days may be still the indomitable Irishry.
I have believed the best of every man, and find that to believe it is enough to make a bad man show him at his best or even a good man swing his lantern higher.
To be born woman is to know - although they do not speak of it at school - women must labor to be beautiful.
If suffering brings wisdom, I would wish to be less wise.
