How strange a thing like that happens to a man. He dabbles in something and does not realise that it is his life.

Yeats, protected to some extent by the Nationalistic movement, wrote out of a somewhat protected world, and so his work does not touch life deeply.

A man is original when he speaks the truth that has always been known to all good men.

Life in cities is not a spring but a river, or rather, a water main. It progresses like a novel, artificially.

There is nothing as dead and as damned as an important thing. The things that really matter are casual, insignificant little things.

A poet is never one of the people. He is detached, remote, and the life of small-time dances and talk about football would not be for him. He might take part but could not belong.