Our Curses On Them That Boil The

If The Past Year Were Offered Me Again, And Choice Of Good And Ill Before Me Set Would I Accept The Pleasure With The Pain Or Dare To Wish That We Had Never Met?

It Is What The Poets Of Ireland Used To Be Saying, That Every Brave Man, Good At Fighting, And Every Man That Could Do Great Deeds And Not Be Making Much Talk About Them, Was Of The Sons Of The Gael; And That Every Skilled Man That Had Music And That Did Enchantments Secretly, Was Of The Tuatha De Danaan.

It's A Grand Thing To Be Able To Take Your Money In Your Hand And To Think No More Of It When It Slips Away From You Than You Would A Trout That Would Slip Back Into The Stream.

It Was Among Farmers And Potato Diggers And Old Men In Workhouses And Beggars At My Own Door That I Found What Was Beyond These And Yet Farther Beyond That Drawingroom Poet Of My Childhood In The Expression Of Love, And Grief, And The Pain Of Parting, That Are The Disclosure Of The Individual Soul.

It Is The Old Battle, Between Those Who Use A Toothbrush And Those Who Don't.