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

What made us dream that he could comb gray hair?

The creations of a great writer are little more than the moods and passions of his own heart, given surnames and Christian names, and sent to walk the earth.

And the merry love the fiddle, and the merry love to dance.

The true poet is all the time a visionary and whether with friends or not, as much alone as a man on his death bed.

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.

The blessed spirits must be sought within the self which is common to all