Out of Ireland have we come, great hatred, little room, maimed us at the start. I carry from my mother's womb a fanatic heart.

When two close kindred meet What better than call a dance?.

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

Some burn damp faggots, others may consume The entire combustible world in one small room.

That is no country for old men. The young In one another's arms, birds in the trees - Those dying generations-at their song, The salmon-falls, the mackerel-crowded seas, Fish, flesh, or fowl, commend all summer long Whatever is begotten, born, and dies. Caught in that sensual music all neglect Monuments of unaging intellect.

How can the arts overcome the slow dying of men's hearts that we call progress ?

Supreme art is a traditional statement of certain heroic and religious truth, passed on from age to age, modified by individual genius, but never abandoned.