Consume my heart away, sick with desire And fastened to a dying animal It knows not what it is, and gather me Into the artifice of eternity.

But was there ever dog that praised his fleas?

John Synge, I and Augusta Gregory, thought All that we did, all that we said or sang Must come from contact with the soil, from that Contact everything Antaeus-like grew strong.

And God, the herdsman, goads them on behind.

A lonely impulse of delight

Life is a long preparation for something that never happens.

We are fastened to a dying animal.