Why Is It That Words Like These

The Personality Of The Artist, At First A Cry Or A Cadence Or A Mood And Then A Fluid, And Lambent Narrative, Finally Refines Itself Out Of Existence, Impersonalises Itself, So To Speak. The Aesthetic Image In The Dramatic Form Is Life Purified In And Reprojected From The Human Imagination. The Mystery Of Aesthetic Like That Of Material Creation Is Accomplished. The Artist, Like The God Of The Creation, Remains Within Or Behind Or Beyond Or Above His Handiwork, Invisible, Refined Out Of Existence, Indifferent, Paring His Fingernails.

Mr. Duffy Lived A Short Distance From His Body.

Every Bond Is A Bond To Sorrow.

Old Father, Old Artificer, Stand Me Now And Ever In Good Stead.

When I Die Dublin Will Be Written On My Heart.