What's memory but the ash That chokes our fires that have begun to sink?

Be secret and exult, Because of all things known That is most difficult.

But I, being poor, have only my dreams; I have spread my dreams under your feet; Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.

It takes more courage to dig deep in the dark corners of your own soul and the back alleys of your society than it does for a soldier to fight on the battlefield.

For the good are always the merry, / Save by an evil chance,/ And the merry love the fiddle,/ And the merry love to dance: / And when the folk there spy me,/ They will all come up to me, / With,”Here is the fiddler of Dooney!” / And dance like a wave of the sea.

But was there ever dog that praised his fleas?

Joy is of the will which labours, which overcomes obstacles, which knows triumph.