The winds that awakened the stars Are blowing through my blood.

The only enemy of innocence and beauty is time.

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

The creations of a great writer are little more than the moods and passions of his own heart, given surnames and Christian names, and sent to walk the earth.

Though I am old with wandering Through hollow lands and hilly lands, I will find out where she has gone, And kiss her lips and take her hands; And walk among long dappled grass, And pluck till time and times are done The silver apples of the moon, The golden apples of the sun.

Life moves out of a red flare of dreams Into a common light of common hours, Until old age brings the red flare again.

Nothing that we love overmuch Is ponderable to our touch.