Irish poets, learn your trade, sing whatever is well made, scorn the sort now growing up all out of shape from toe to top.

People who lean on logic and philosophy and rational exposition end by starving the best part of the mind.

You that would judge me, do not judge alone this book or that, come to this hallowed place where my friends' portraits hang and look thereon; Ireland's history in their lineaments trace; think where man's glory most begins and ends and say my glory was I had such friends.

I wonder anybody does anything at Oxford but dream and remember, the place is so beautiful. One almost expects the people to sing instead of speaking. It is all like an opera.