The soul of man is of the imperishable substance of the stars!

What shall I do for pretty girls Now my old bawd is dead?

A line will take us hours maybe; Yet if it does not seem a moment's thought, our stitching and unstitching has been naught.

Life moves out of a red flare of dreams Into a common light of common hours, Until old age brings the red flare again.

From our birthday, until we die, Is but the winking of an eye.

Everything that man esteems Endures a moment or a day. Love's pleasure drives his love away, The painter's brush consumes his dreams.

We are no petty people. We are one of the great stocks of Burke; we are the people of Swift, the people of Emmet, the people of Parnell. We have created most of the modern literature of this country. We have created the best of its political intelligence.