Think where mans glory most begins and ends, and say my glory was I had such friends.
The Government does not intend these things to happen, the Commission on whose report the Bill was founded did not intend these things to happen, but in legislation intention is nothing, and the letter of the law everything, and no government has the
Romantic Ireland's dead and gone, It's with O'Leary in the grave
An intellectual hate is the worst
Now that my ladder's goneI must lie down where all ladders startIn the foul rag and bone shop of the heart.
We had fed the heart on fantasies,The heart's grown brutal from the fare.
The fascination of what's difficultHas dried the sap out of my veins, and rentSpontaneous joy and natural contentOut of my heart.
Oh, who could have foretoldThat the heart grows old
Hell is the place of those who have deniedThey find there what they planted and what dug,A Lake of Spaces, and a Wood of Nothing,And wander there and drift, and never ceaseWailing for substance.
Nor dread nor hope attendA dying animalA man awaits his endDreading and hoping all.
An intellectual hatred is the worst,So let her think opinions are accursed.
I call on those that call me son,Grandson, or great-grandson,On uncles, aunts, great-uncles or great-aunts,To judge what I have done.Have I, that put it into words,Spoilt what old loins have sent
When such as I cast out remorseSo great a sweetness flows into the breastWe must laugh and we must sing,We are blest by everything,Everything we look upon is blest.
I have believed the best of every man. And find that to believe is enough to make a bad man show him at his best, or even a good man swings his lantern higher.
Life is a long preparation for something that never happens.
Education is not the filling of the pail, but, the lighting of the fire.
I hate journalists. There is nothing in them but tittering jeering emptiness. They have all made what Dante calls the Great Refusal. The shallowest people on the ridge of the earth.
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.
Nor dread nor hope attend a dying animal a man awaits his end dreading and hoping all.
I know that I shall meet my fate somewhere among the clouds above those that I fight I do not hate, those that I guard I do not love.
I heard the old, old, men say 'all that's beautiful drifts away, like the waters.'
Choose your companions from the best Who draws a bucket with the rest soon topples down the hill.
Cast your mind on other days that we in coming days may be still the indomitable Irishry.
All empty souls tend toward extreme opinions.
And say my glory was I had such friends.