Nobody running at full speed has either a head or a heart.

Too long a sacrifice/ Can make a stone of the heart. -William Butler Yeats.

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

Too long a sacrifice can make a stone of the heart. O when may it suffice?

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.

How far away the stars seem, and how far is our first kiss, and ah, how old my heart.