“Think where man's glory most begins and ends, and say my glory was I had such friends.”
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Out of Ireland have we come, great hatred, little room, maimed us at the start. I carry from my mother's womb a fanatic heart.
I balanced all, brought all to mind, the years to come seemed waste of breath, a waste of breath the years behind, in balance with this life, this death.
We make out of the quarrel with others, rhetoric, but of the quarrel with ourselves, poetry.
Happiness is neither virtue nor pleasure nor this thing nor that but simply growth, We are happy when we are growing.
