Wine enters through the mouth, Love, the eyes. I raise the glass to my mouth, I look at you, I sigh.

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

I kiss you and kiss you, With arms around my own, Ah, how shall I miss you, When, dear, you have grown.

There midnight's all a glimmer, and noon a purple glow, And evening full of the linnet's wings.

The light of lights looks always on the motive, not the deed, the shadow of shadows on the deed alone.

Everything exists, everything is true and the earth is just a bit of dust beneath our feet.

Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world, the blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere the ceremony of innocence is drowned.