Better Authentic Mammon Than A Bogus God.

September Has Come, It Is Hers Whose Vitality Leaps In The Autumn, Whose Nature Prefers Trees Without Leaves And A Fire In The Fireplace. So I Give Her This Month And The Next Though The Whole Of My Year Should Be Hers Who Has Rendered Already So Many Of Its Days Intolerable Or Perplexed But So Many More So Happy. Who Has Left A Scent On My Life, And Left My Walls Dancing Over And Over With Her Shadow Whose Hair Is Twined In All My Waterfalls And All Of London Littered With Remembered Kisses.

Blind Wantons Like The Gulls Who Scream And Rip The Edge Off Any Ideal Or Dream.

Why Do We Like Being Irish? Partly Because It Gives Us A Hold On The Sentimental English As Members Of A World That Never Was, Baptized With Fairy Water

The Sunlight On The Garden Hardens And Grows Cold, We Cannot Cage The Minute Within Its Nets Of Gold

I Am Not Yet Born; O Fill Me With Strength Against Those Who Would Freeze My Humanity, Would Dragoon Me Into A Lethal Automaton Would Make Me A Cog In A Machine, A Thing With One Face, A Thing