I wonder anybody does anything at Oxford but dream and remember
Our words must seem to be inevitable.
And the merry love the fiddle, and the merry love to dance.
The winds that awakened the stars Are blowing through my blood.
Be secret and exult, Because of all things known That is most difficult.
You that would judge me, do not judge alone this book or that, come to this hallowed place where my friends' portraits hang and look thereon; Ireland's history in their lineaments trace; think where man's glory most begins and ends and say my glory was I had such friends.