O heart! O heart! if she'd but turn her head You'd know the folly of being comforted.

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.

I went out to the hazelwood because a fire was in my head.

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

If a poet interprets a poem of his own he limits its suggestibility.

But was there ever dog that praised his fleas?

How can I, that girl standing there, My attention fix On Roman or on Russian Or on Spanish politics? Yet here's a travelled man that knows What he talks about, And there's a politician That has read and thought, And maybe what they say is true Of war and war's alarms, But O that I were young again And held her in my arms!