Be secret and exult, Because of all things known That is most difficult.

We are closed in, and the key is turned / On our uncertainty.

Only God, my dear, Could love you for yourself alone And not your yellow hair.

How but in custom and in ceremony are innocence and beauty born?

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.

Labor is blossoming or dancing where The body is not bruised to pleasure soul, Nor beauty born out of its own despair, Nor blear-eyed wisdom out of midnight oil. O chestnut tree, great-rooted blossomer, Are you the leaf, the blossom or the bole? O body swayed to music, O brightening glance How can we know the dancer from the dance?

On limestone quarried near the spot By his command these words are cut: Cast a cold eye On life, on death. Horseman, pass by!