“A daughter of a King of Ireland, heardA voice singing on a May Eve like this,And followed half awake and half asleep,Until she came into the Land of Faery,Where nobody gets old and godly and grave,Where nobody gets old and crafty and wise,Where nobody gets old and bitter of tongue.And she is still there, busied with a danceDeep in the dewy shadow of a wood,Or where stars walk upon a mountain-top.”

“Though I am old with wanderingThrough hollow lands and hilly lands,I will find out where she has gone,And kiss her lips and take her hands;And walk among long dappled grass,And pluck till time and times are doneThe silver apples of the moon,The golden apples of the sun.- The Song of Wandering Aengus”

“Hope and Memory have one daughter and her name is Art, and she has built her dwelling far from the desperate field where men hang out their garments upon forked boughs to be banners of battle. O beloved daughter of Hope and Memory, be with me for a while.”

“Faeries, come take me out of this dull world,For I would ride with you upon the wind,Run on the top of the dishevelled tide,And dance upon the mountains like a flame.”

“God spreads the heavens above us like great wingsAnd gives a little round of deeds and days,And then come the wrecked angels and set snares,And bait them with light hopes and heavy dreams,Until the heart is puffed with pride and goesHalf shuddering and half joyous from God's peace;And it was some wrecked angel, blind with tears,Who flattered Edane's heart with merry words.Come, faeries, take me out of this dull house!Let me have all the freedom I have lost;Work when I will and idle when I will!Faeries, come take me out of this dull world,For I would ride with you upon the wind,Run on the top of the dishevelled tide,And dance upon the mountains like a flame. I would take the worldAnd break it into pieces in my handsTo see you smile watching it crumble away. Once a fly dancing in a beam of the sun,Or the light wind blowing out of the dawn,Could fill your heart with dreams none other knew,But now the indissoluble sacramentHas mixed your heart that was most proud and coldWith my warm heart for ever; the sun and moonMust fade and heaven be rolled up like a scrollBut your white spirit still walk by my spirit. When winter sleep is abroad my hair grows thin,My feet unsteady. When the leaves awakenMy mother carries me in her golden arms;I'll soon put on my womanhood and marryThe spirits of wood and water, but who can tellWhen I was born for the first time? The wind blows out of the gates of the day,The wind blows over the lonely of heart,And the lonely of heart is withered away;While the faeries dance in a place apart,Shaking their milk-white feet in a ring,Tossing their milk-white arms in the air;For they hear the wind laugh and murmur and singOf a land where even the old are fair,And even the wise are merry of tongue;But I heard a reed of Coolaney say--When the wind has laughed and murmured and sung,The lonely of heart is withered away.”

“The Song Of The Happy ShepherdThe woods of Arcady are dead,And over is their antique joy;Of old the world on dreaming fed;Grey Truth is now her painted toy;Yet still she turns her restless head:But O, sick children of the world,Of all the many changing thingsIn dreary dancing past us whirled,To the cracked tune that Chronos sings,Words alone are certain good.Where are now the warring kings,Word be-mockers?—By the Rood,Where are now the watring kings?An idle word is now their glory,By the stammering schoolboy said,Reading some entangled story:The kings of the old time are dead;The wandering earth herself may beOnly a sudden flaming word,In clanging space a moment heard,Troubling the endless reverie.Then nowise worship dusty deeds,Nor seek, for this is also sooth,To hunger fiercely after truth,Lest all thy toiling only breedsNew dreams, new dreams; there is no truthSaving in thine own heart. Seek, then,No learning from the starry men,Who follow with the optic glassThe whirling ways of stars that pass—Seek, then, for this is also sooth,No word of theirs—the cold star-baneHas cloven and rent their hearts in twain,And dead is all their human truth.Go gather by the humming seaSome twisted, echo-harbouring shell.And to its lips thy story tell,And they thy comforters will be.Rewording in melodious guileThy fretful words a little while,Till they shall singing fade in ruthAnd die a pearly brotherhood;For words alone are certain good:Sing, then, for this is also sooth.I must be gone: there is a graveWhere daffodil and lily wave,And I would please the hapless faun,Buried under the sleepy ground,With mirthful songs before the dawn.His shouting days with mirth were crowned;And still I dream he treads the lawn,Walking ghostly in the dew,Pierced by my glad singing through,My songs of old earth’s dreamy youth:But ah! she dreams not now; dream thou!For fair are poppies on the brow:Dream, dream, for this is also sooth.”

“Chance and Destiny have between them woven two-thirds of all history, and of the history of Ireland wellnigh the whole. The literature of a nation, on the other hand, is spun out of its heart. If you would know Ireland - body and soul - you must read its poems and stories. They came into existence to please nobody but the people of Ireland. Government did not make them on the one hand, nor bad seasons on the other. They are Ireland talking to herself.”