The will is free; Strong is the soul, and wise, and beautiful; The seeds of godlike power are in us still; Gods are we, bards, saints, heroes, if we will!
Poetry is the work of the bard and of the people who inspire him.
What is the end of Fame? 'tis but to fill A certain portion of uncertain paper: Some liken it to climbing up a hill, Whose summit, like all hills, is lost in vapour: For this men write, speak, preach, and heroes kill, And bards burn what they call their "midnight taper," To have, when the original is dust, A name, a wretched picture, and worse bust.
How have you left the ancient love That bards of old enjoyed in you! The languid strings do scarcely move! The sound is forced, the notes are few!
Battle for the sake of honor may be a fine thing for bards to sing of, but it is no way to preserve one's homeland
It doesn't matter how you live and die, it's how the bards wrote it down.
Oh! blame not the bard.
Of all that writ, he was the wisest bard, who spoke this mighty truth- He that knew all that ever learning writ, Knew only this-that he knew nothing yet.
The Eighth Commandment was not made for bards.
I paint the cot, As truth will paint it, and as bards will not.
Bards of Passion and of Mirth, Ye have left your souls on earth! Have ye souls in heaven too, Double-lived in regions new?
Only a fool wants war, but once a war starts then it cannot be fought half-heartedly. It cannot even be fought with regret, but must be waged with a savage joy in defeating the enemy, and it is that savage joy that inspires our bards to write their greatest songs about love and war.
Europe has always owed to oriental genius its divine impulses. What these holy bards said, all sane men found agreeable and true.
The ancient Irish bards knew the Salmon of Knowledge as the giver of all life's wisdom. In the salmon's leap of understanding like a leap of faith, we can see ourselves "in our element," immersed in the river of life. The cycle of the salmon's journey reminds us that all rivers flow to the same sea.
From Bard, to Bard, the frigid Caution crept, Till Declamation roar'd, while Passion slept.
I can't make sense out of that girl," he said to the bard, "Can you?" "Never mind," Fflewddur said, "We aren't really expected to.
And evermore the waters worship God;-- And bards and prophets tune their mystic lyres While listening to the music of the waves!
Bards were terrible at keeping secrets. They insisted on putting them to music.
