Where there is nothing, there is God.
The fascination of what's difficult Has dried the sap out of my veins, and rent Spontaneous joy and natural content Out of my heart.
What made us dream that he could comb gray hair?
Nothing that we love overmuch Is ponderable to our touch.
Our own acts are isolated and one act does not buy absolution for another.
Was it for this the wild geese spread The gray wing upon every tide; For this that all that blood was shed, For this. Edward Fitzgerald died, And Robert Emmet and Wolfe Tone, All that delirium of the brave? Romantic Ireland's dead and gone, It's with O'Leary in the grave.