The true faith discovered was When painted panel, statuary, Glass-mosaic, window-glass, Amended what was told awry By some peasant gospeler.

Whatever flames upon the night Man's own resinous heart has fed.

Choose your companions from the best; Who draws a bucket with the rest soon topples down the hill.

Sometimes my feet are tired and my hands are quiet, but there is no quiet in my heart.

The Irishman sustains himself during brief periods of joy by the knowledge that tragedy is just around the corner.

I balanced all, brought all to mind, the years to come seemed waste of breath, a waste of breath the years behind, in balance with this life, this death.

I would have touched it like a child But knew my finger could but have touched Cold stone and water. I grew wild, Even accusing heaven because It had set down among its laws: Nothing that we love over-much Is ponderable to our touch.