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The creations of a great writer are little more than the moods and passions of his own heart, given surnames and Christian names, and sent to walk the earth.
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.
Think where man’s glory most begins and ends, and say my glory was I had such friends.
Education is not the filling of a pail, but the lighting of a fire.
Take, if you must, this little bag of dreams, Unloose the cord, and they will wrap you round.
Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.
But I, being poor, have only my dreams I have spread my dreams under your feet Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.
In dreams begins responsibility.
I balanced all, brought all to mind, the years to come seemed waste of breath, a waste of breath the years behind, in balance with this life, this death.
The only business of the head in the world is to bow a ceaseless obeisance to the heart.