And God stands winding His lonely horn, And time and the world are ever in flight.

Everything exists, everything is true and the earth is just a bit of dust beneath our feet.

A daughter of a King of Ireland, heard A voice singing on a May Eve like this, And followed half awake and half asleep, Until she came into the Land of Faery, Where nobody gets old and godly and grave, Where nobody gets old and crafty and wise, Where nobody gets old and bitter of tongue. And she is still there, busied with a dance Deep in the dewy shadow of a wood, Or where stars walk upon a mountain-top.

Hearts with one purpose alone/Through summer and winter seem/Enchanted to a stone/To trouble the living stream.

The creations of a great writer are little more than the moods and passions of his own heart, given surnames and Christian names, and sent to walk the earth.

Many times man lives and dies between his two eternities: that of race and that of Soul... A brief parting from those dear is the worst man has to fear... Though grave diggers' toil is long... They but thrust their buried men back in the human mind again.

Cast your mind on other days that we in coming days may be still the indomitable Irishry.