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

The Land of Faery, Where nobody gets old and godly and grave, Where nobody gets old and crafty and wise, Where nobody gets old and bitter of tongue.

Sometimes my feet are tired and my hands are quiet, but there is no quiet in my heart.

O but we dreamed to mend Whatever mischief seemed To afflict mankind, but now That winds of winter blow Learn that we were crack-pated when we dreamed.

Ah, let us kiss each other's eyes,/And laugh our love away.

Who mocks at music mocks at love.

The mystical life is the centre of all that I do and all that I think and all that I write. . . . I have always considered myself a voice of what I believe to be a greater renaissance - the revolt of the soul against the intellect.