What Is Our Innocence, What Is Our

The Irish Say Your Trouble Is Their Trouble And Your Joy Their Joy? I Wish I Could Believe It; I Am Troubled, I'm Dissatisfied, I'm Irish.

We Are What We Were At Birth, And Each Trait Has Remained In Conformity With Earth's And With Heaven's Logic: Be The Devil's Tool, Resort To Black Magic, None Can Diverge From The Ends Which Heaven Foreordained.

Dürer Would Have Seen A Reason For Living In A Town Like This.

Truly As The Sun Can Rot Or Mend, Love Can Make One Bestial Or Make A Beast A Man.

Below The Incandescent Stars / Below The Incandescent Fruit, / The Strange Experience Of Beauty; / Its Existence Is Too Much; / It Tears One To Pieces / And Each Fresh Wave Of Consciousness / Is Poison.