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.
The uncontrollable mystery on the bestial floor.
What can be explained is not poetry.
Cast your mind on other days that we in coming days may be still the indomitable Irishry.
And God, the herdsman, goads them on behind.
In dreams begins responsibility.