If what I say resonates with you, it's merely because we're branches of the same tree.

What shall I do with this absurdity- O heart, O troubled heart-this caricature, Decrepit age that has been tied to me As to a dog's tail? Never had I more Excited, passionate, fantastical Imagination, nor an ear and eye That more expected the impossible.

All the wild-witches, those most notable ladies For all their broom-sticks and their tears, Their angry tears, are gone.

I think you can leave the arts, superior or inferior, to the conscience of mankind.

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.

Where there is nothing, there is God.

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