Being Irish, he had an abiding sense of tragedy, which sustained him through temporary periods of joy.

Labor is blossoming or dancing where The body is not bruised to pleasure soul, Nor beauty born out of its own despair, Nor blear-eyed wisdom out of midnight oil. O chestnut tree, great-rooted blossomer, Are you the leaf, the blossom or the bole? O body swayed to music, O brightening glance How can we know the dancer from the dance?

Nothing that we love overmuch Is ponderable to our touch.

Only God, my dear, Could love you for yourself alone And not your yellow hair.

I hear it in the deep heart's core.

A thought Of that late death took all my heart for speech.

I Sing what was lost and dread what was won, / I walk in a battle fought over again.