I hear it in the deep heart's core.
Not a man alive has so much luck that he can play with it.
Never shall a young man, Thrown into despair By those great honey-coloured Ramparts at your ear, Love you for yourself alone And not your yellow hair.
Be secret and exult, Because of all things known That is most difficult.
Cast your mind on other days that we in coming days may be still the indomitable Irishry.
What can be explained is not poetry.