Happiness is neither virtue nor pleasure nor this thing nor that but simply growth, We are happy when we are growing.
From William Butler Yeats
The light of lights looks always on the motive, not the deed, the shadow of shadows on the deed alone.
Irish poets, learn your trade, sing whatever is well made, scorn the sort now growing up all out of shape from toe to top.
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.
Nor dread nor hope attend a dying animal; a man awaits his end dreading and hoping all.
A line will take us hours maybe; Yet if it does not seem a moment's thought, our stitching and unstitching has been naught.
The innocent and the beautiful have no enemy but time.
I think it better that in times like these a poet's mouth be silent, for in truth we have no gift to set a statesman right.
I know that I shall meet my fate somewhere among the clouds above; those that I fight I do not hate, those that I guard I do not love.
How far away the stars seem, and how far is our first kiss, and ah, how old my heart.
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