A line will take us hours maybe; Yet if it does not seem a moment's thought, our stitching and unstitching has been naught.

And God stands winding His lonely horn, And time and the world are ever in flight.

I knew a phoenix in my youth, so let them have their day.

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

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

Never shall a young man, Thrown into despair By those great honey-coloured Ramparts at your ear, Love you for yourself alone And not your yellow hair.

Everything that man esteems Endures a moment or a day. Love's pleasure drives his love away, The painter's brush consumes his dreams.