It Is A Symbol Of Irish Art.

I Care Not If I Live But A Day And A Night, So Long As My Deeds Live After Me.

A Way A Lone A Last A Loved A Long The Riverrun, Past Eve And Adam's, From Swerve Of Shore To Bend Of Bay, Brings Us By A Commodius Vicus Of Recirculation Back To Howth Castle And Environs.

Desire's Wind Blasts The Thorntree But After It Becomes From A Bramblebush To Be A Rose Upon The Rood Of Time.

Poetry, Even When Apparently Most Fantastic, Is Always A Revolt Against Artifice, A Revolt, In A Sense, Against Actuality.

Gazing Up Into The Darkness I Saw Myself As A Creature Driven And Derided By Vanity; And My Eyes Burned With Anguish And Anger.