I'm Troubled. I'm Dissatisfied. I'm Irish.

Concurring Hands Divide Flax For Damask That When Bleached By Irish Weather Has The Silvered Chamois-leather Water-tightness Of A Skin.

The Prey Of Fear, He, Always Curtailed, Extinguished, Thwarted By The Dusk, Work Partly Done, Says To The Alternating Blaze, "again The Sun! Anew Each Day; And New And New And New, That Comes Into And Steadies My Soul."

I'm Troubled. I'm Dissatisfied. I'm Irish.

There Is A Great Amount Of Poetry In Unconscious Fastidiousness.

War Is Pillage Versus Resistance And If Illusions Of Magnitude Could Be Transmuted Into Ideals Of Magnanimity, Peace Might Be Realized.