Before us lies eternity; our souls <br>Are love$$$ and a continual farewell.

We know their dream; enough<br>To know they dreamed and are dead;<br>And what if excess of love<br>Bewildered them till they died?

I shall find the dark grow luminous$$$ the void fruitful when I understand I have nothing$$$ that the ringers in the tower have appointed for the hymen of the soul a passing bell.

Romantic Ireland's dead and gone<br>It's with O' Leary in the grave.

The host is rushing 'twixt day and night$$$<br>And where is there hope or deed as fair?<br>Caoilte tossing his burning hair$$$<br>And Niamh calling Away$$$ come away.

....tradition gives the one thing many shapes.

Why$$$ what could she have done$$$ being what she is? Was there another Troy for her to burn?

I said: 'A line will take us hours maybe';<br>Yet if it does not seem a moment's thought$$$<br>Our stitching and unstitching has been naught.

Heart-mysteries there$$$ and yet when all is said<br>It was the dream itself enchanted me.

All the wild-witches$$$ those most notable ladies<br>For all their broom-sticks and their tears$$$<br>Their angry tears$$$ are gone.