I bring you with reverent hands The books of my numberless dreams.

No art can conquer the people alone-the people are conquered by an ideal of life upheld by authority.

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

All the great masters have understood that there cannot be great art without the little limited life of the fable, which is always better the simpler it is, and the rich, far-wandering, many-imaged life of the half-seen world beyond it

There is no deformity But saves us from a dream.

I agree about Shaw - he is haunted by the mystery he flouts. He is an atheist who trembles in the haunted corridor.

Cast your mind on other days that we in coming days may be still the indomitable Irishry.