“Into my heart an air that killsFrom yon far country blows:What are those blue remembered hills,What spires, what farms are those?That is the land of lost content,I see it shining plain,The happy highways where I wentAnd cannot come again.”

“Name me no names for my disease,With uninforming breath;I tell you I am none of these,But homesick unto death —Homesick for hills that I had known,For brooks that I had crossed,...Before I met this flesh and boneAnd followed and was lost… .And though they break my heart at last,Yet name no name of ills.Say only, "Here is where he passed,Seeking again those hills.”

“I die without seeing dawn's light shining on my country... You, who will see it, welcome it for me...don't forget those who fell during the nighttime.”

“I was the giant great and stillThat sits upon the pillow-hill,And sees before him, dale and plain,The pleasant land of counterpane.”

“What this country needs... what this great land of ours needs is something to happen to it. Something ferocious and tragic, like what happened to Jericho or the cities of the plain - something terrible I mean, son, so that when the people have been through hellfire and the crucible, and have suffered agony enough and grief, they’ll be people again, human beings, not a bunch of smug contented cows rooting at the trough.”

“What sorrow is like to the sorrow of one who is alone?Once I dwelt in the company of the king I loved well,And my arm was heavy with the weight of the rings he gave,And my heart weighed down with the gold of his love.The face the king is like the sun to those who surrounded,.But now my heart is emptyAnd I wander along throughout the world.The groves take on their blossoms,The trees and meadows grow fairBut the cuckoo, saddest of singers,Cries forth the only sorrow of the exile,And now my heart hoes wandering,In search of what I shall never see more;All faces are alike to me if I cannot see the face of my king,And all countries are alike to me When I cannot see the fair fields and meadows of my home.So I shall arise and follow my heart in its wanderingFor what is the fair meadow of home to meWhen I cannot see the face of my kingAnd the weight on my arm is but a band of goldWhen the heart is empty of the weight of love.And so I shall go roaming Over the fishers' roadAnd the road of the great whale And beyond the country of the waveWith none to bear me companyBut the memory of those I lovedAnd the songs I sang out of a full heart,And the cuckoo's cry in memory.”