Tread softly, for you tread on my dreams

For he would be thinking of love Till the stars had run away And the shadows eaten the moon.

Players and painted stage took all my love, And not those things that they were emblems of.

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.

Nor law, nor duty bade me fight, Nor public men, nor cheering crowds, A lonely impulse of delight Drove to this tumult in the clouds.

All hatred driven hence, The soul recovers radical innocence And learns at last that it is self-delighting, Self-appeasing, self-affrighting, And that its own sweet will is Heaven's will

Englishmen are babes in philosophy and so prefer faction-fighting to the labour of its unfamiliar thought.