Our own acts are isolated and one act does not buy absolution for another.

The blessed spirits must be sought within the self which is common to all

Was it for this the wild geese spread The gray wing upon every tide; For this that all that blood was shed, For this. Edward Fitzgerald died, And Robert Emmet and Wolfe Tone, All that delirium of the brave? Romantic Ireland's dead and gone, It's with O'Leary in the grave.

While they danced they came over them the weariness with the world, the melancholy, the pity one for the other, which is the exultation of love.

Love comes in at the eye.

My father was an angry and impatient teacher and flung the reading book at my head.

Where the wave of moonlight glosses The dim gray sands with light, Far off by furthest Rosses We foot it all the night, Weaving olden dances, Mingling hands and mingling glances Till the moon has taken flight; To and fro we leap And chase the frothy bubbles, While the world is full of troubles And is anxious in its sleep. . . .