W. B. Yeats

Let the minor genius go his light way and enjoy his life - the great nature cannot so live, he is never really in holiday mood, even though he often plucks flowers by the wayside and ties them into knots and garlands like little children and lays out on a sunny morning.

O what fine thought we had because we thought that the worst rogues and rascals had died out.

Being Irish, he had an abiding sense of tragedy which sustained him through temporary periods of joy.

Turning and turning in the widening gyre,
The falcone cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world...

But I, being poor, have only my dreams. I have spread my dreams under your feet. Tread softly, because you tread on my dreams.