On the green banks of Shannon, when Sheelah was nigh, No blithe Irish lad was so happy as I, No harp like my own could so cheerily play, And wherever I went was my poor dog Tray.

Coming events cast their shadows before.

The proud, the cold untroubled heart of stone, that never mused on sorrow but its own.

the soul of conversation is sympathy

Never wedding, ever wooing, Still a lovelorn heart pursuing, Read you not the wrong you're doing In my cheek's pale hue? All my life with sorrow strewing; Wed or cease to woo.

It's not about the body; you are consciousness. That's what you are. Your consciousness is already out of your body. You don't need to get out of your body, you just need to get into your consciousness.

The being level speaks the language of art, music, color shape and pattern directly -- a language that requires no words -- is not limited by words -- nor does it have the specificity of words and thus cannot be broken onto parts that can be manipulated or analyzed by the intellect. It must be swallowed, whole not parsed, sorted and justified.