Thoughts on his own death, like the distant roll of thunder at a picnic.

Death is the sound of distant thunder at a picnic.

A professor is one who talks in someone else's sleep

There are good books which are only for adults.
There are no good books which are only for children.

Mad Ireland hurt you into poetry.

He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last forever: I was wrong.