Now must we sing and sing the best we can, But first you must be told your character: Convicted cowards all, by kindred slain.
I say that Roger Casement Did what he had to do, He died upon the gallows But that is nothing new.
The Danaan children laugh, in cradles of wrought gold, And clap their hands together, and half close their eyes, For they will ride the North when the ger-eagle flies, With heavy whitening wings, and a heart fallen cold.
So long as all is ordered for attack, and that alone, leaders will instinctively increase the number of enemies that they may give their followers something to do.
In mockery I have set A powerful emblem up, And sing it rhyme upon rhyme In mockery of a time Half dead at the top.
The old priest Peter Gilligan Was weary night and day; For half his flock were in their beds, Or under green sods lay.
Books are but waste paper unless we spend in action the wisdom we get from thought - asleep. When we are weary of the living, we may repair to the dead, who have nothing of peevishness, pride, or design in their conversation.
. . . you may think I waste my breath Pretending that there can be passion That has more life in it than death
Surely among a rich man's flowering lawns, Amid the rustle of his planted hills, Life overflows without ambitious pains; And rains down life until the basin spills, And mounts more dizzy high the more it rains As though to choose whatever shape it wills.
I would that I were an old beggar Rolling a blind pearl eye, For he cannot see my lady Go gallivanting by.
How can I, that girl standing there, My attention fix On Roman or on Russian Or on Spanish politics? Yet here's a travelled man that knows What he talks about, And there's a politician That has read and thought, And maybe what they say is true Of war and war's alarms, But O that I were young again And held her in my arms!
I have nothing but the embittered sun; Banished heroic mother moon and vanished, And now that I have come to fifty years I must endure the timid sun.
How but in custom and in ceremony are innocence and beauty born?
For what but eye and ear silence the mind With the minute particulars of mankind?
Death and life were not Till man made up the whole, Made lock, stock and barrel Out of his bitter soul
Give to these children, new from the world, Rest far from men. Is anything better, anything better? Tell us it then.
The labor of the alchemists, who were called artist in their day, is a befitting comparison for a deliberate change of style.
I see a schoolboy when I think of him, With face and nose pressed to a sweet-shop window.
Acquaintance; companion; One dear brilliant woman; The best-endowed, the elect, All by their youth undone, All, all, by that inhuman Bitter glory wrecked.
When we are high and airy hundreds say That if we hold that flight they'll leave the place, While those same hundreds mock another day Because we have made our art of common things.
The Bishop has a skin, God knows, Wrinkled like the foot of a goose, (All find safety in the tomb.) Nor can he hide in holy black The heron's hunch upon his back, But a birch-tree stood my Jack.
The wrong of unshapely things is a wrong too great to be told; I hunger to build them anew and sit on a green knoll apart.
The creations of a great writer are little more than the moods and passions of his own heart, given surnames and Christian names, and sent to walk the earth.
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?
Why should the imagination of a man Long past his prime remember things that are Emblematical of love and war?
Follow AzQuotes on Facebook, Twitter and Google+. Every day we present the best quotes! Improve yourself, find your inspiration, share with friends
or simply: