Hope and Memory have one daughter and her name is Art, and she has built her dwelling far from the desperate field where men hang out their garments upon forked boughs to be banners of battle. O beloved daughter of Hope and Memory, be with me for a while.

Literature is always personal, always one man's vision of the world, one man's experience, and it can only be popular when men are ready to welcome the visions of others.

Out of the quarrel with others we make rhetoric; out of the quarrel with ourselves we make poetry.

I bring you with reverent hands
The books of my numberless dreams.

I went out to the hazel wood
because a fire was in my head
cut and peeled a hazel wand
and hooked a berry to a thread
and when white moths were on the wing
and moth-like stars were flickering out
I dropped the berry in a stream,
and caught a little silver trout....


(Song of Wandering Aengus)

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