Oh Ireland My First And Only Love

I Want To Give A Picture Of Dublin So Complete That If The City Suddenly Disappeared From The Earth It Could Be Reconstructed Out Of My Book.

Poetry, Even When Apparently Most Fantastic, Is Always A Revolt Against Artifice, A Revolt, In A Sense, Against Actuality. It Speaks Of What Seems Fantastic And Unreal To Those Who Have Lost The Simple Intuitions Which Are The Test Of Reality; And, As It Is Often Found At War With Its Age, So It Makes No Account Of History, Which Is Fabled By The Daughters Of Memory.

History Is That Nightmare From Which There Is No Awakening.

The State Is Concentric, But The Individual Is Eccentric.

Beware The Horns Of A Bull, The Heels Of The Horse, And The Smile Of An Englishman.