When twilight flutters the mountains over
The faery lights from the earth unfold,
And over the hills enchanted hover
The giant heroes and gods of old: 
The bird of aether its flaming pinions
Waves over earth the whole night long: 
The stars drop down in their blue dominions
To hymn together their choral song: 
The child of earth in his heart grows burning
Mad for the night and the deep unknown;
His alien flame in a dream returning
Seats itself on the ancient throne. 
When twilight over the mountains fluttered
And night with its starry millions came,
I too had dreams; the thoughts I have uttered. 
Come from my heart that was touched by the flame

I thought over the attempts made time after time to gain our freedom; how failure had followed failure until at last it seemed that we must write over hero and chieftain of our cause the memorial spoken of the warriors of old, “They went forth to the battle but they always fell;” and it seemed to me that these efforts resulted in failure because the ideals put forward were not in the plan of nature for us; that it was not in our destiny that we should attempt a civilization like that of other lands.  Though the cry of nationality rings for ever in our ears, the word here has embodied to most no other hope than this, that we should when free be able to enter with more energy upon pursuits already adopted by the people of other countries.  Our leaders have erected no nobler standard than theirs, and we who, as a race, are the forlorn hope of idealism in Europe, sink day by day into apathy and forget what a past was ours and what a destiny awaits us if we will but rise responsive to it.  Though so old in tradition this Ireland of today is a child among the nations of the world; and what a child, and with what a strain of genius in it!  There is all the superstition, the timidity and lack of judgment, the unthought recklessness of childhood, but combined with what generosity and devotion, and what an unfathomable love for its heroes.  Who can forget that memorable day when its last great chief was laid to rest?  He was not the prophet of our spiritual future; he was not the hero of our highest ideals; but he was the only hero we knew.  The very air was penetrated with the sobbing and passion of unutterable regret.  Ah, Eri, in other lands there is strength and mind and the massive culmination of ordered power, but in thee alone is there such love as the big heart of childhood can feel.  It is this which maketh all thy exiles turn with longing thoughts to thee.

Before trying her to indicate a direction for the future, guessed from brooding on the far past and by touching on the secret springs in the heart of the present, it may make that future seem easier of access if I point out what we have escaped and also show that we have already a freedom which, though but half recognized, is yet our most precious heritage.  We are not yet involved in a social knot which only red revolution can sever:  our humanity, the ancient gift of nature to us, is still fresh in our veins:  our force is not merely the reverberation of a past, an inevitable momentum started in the long ago, but is free for newer life to do what we will with in the coming time.