Yet the companions of the Muses will keep their collective nose in my books And weary with historical data, they will turn to my dance tune.
I ask a wreathwhich will not crush my head. And there is no hurry about it; I shall have, doubtless, a boom after my funeral, Seeing that long standing increases all things regardless of quality.
There is no topicmore soporific and generally boring than the topic of Ireland as Ireland, as a nation.
Allow me to say that I would long since have committed suicide had desisting made me a professor of Latin.
Technique is the test of sincerity. If a thing isn't worth getting the technique to say, it is of inferior value.
The age demanded an image Of its accelerated grimace, Something for the modern stage, Not, at any rate, an Attic grace.
Gloom and solemnity are entirely out of place in even the most rigorous study of an art originally intended to make glad the heart of man.
As a bathtub lined with white porcelain, When the hot water gives out or goes tepid, So is the slow cooling of our chivalrous passion, O my much praised but-not-altogether-satisfactory lady.
You have been second always. Tragical? No. You preferred it to the usual thing: One dull man, dulling and uxorious, One average mind- with one thought less, each year.
I could I trust starve like a gentleman. It's listed as part of the poetic training, you know.
'Tis the white stag, Fame, we're a-hunting, bid the world's hounds come to horn!
And in the mean time my songs will travel, And the devirginated young ladies will enjoy them when they have got over the strangeness
Quiet this metal! Let the manes put off their terror, let them put off their aqueous bodies with fire. Let them assume the milk-white bodies of agate. Let them draw together the bones of the metal.
Song in the Manner of Housman" O woe, woe, People are born and die, We also shall be dead pretty soon Therefore let us act as if we were dead already. The bird sits on the hawthorn tree But he dies also, presently. Some lads get hung, and some get shot. Woeful is this human lot. Woe! woe, etcetera.... London is a woeful place, Shropshire is much pleasanter. Then let us smile a little space Upon fond nature's morbid grace. Oh, Woe, woe, woe, etcetera.
Artists are the antennae of the race, but the bullet-headed many will never learn to trust the great artists.
I dunno what my 23 infantile years in America signify. I left as soon as motion was autarchic -- I mean my motion.
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