I have desired, like every artist, to create a little world out of the

beautiful, pleasant, and significant things of this marred and clumsy

world, and to show in a vision something of the face of Ireland to any

of my own people who would look where I bid them. I have therefore

written down accurately and candidly much that I have heard and seen,

and, except by way of commentary, nothing that I have merely imagined.

I have, however, been at no pains to separate my own beliefs from those

of the peasantry, but have rather let my men and women, dhouls and

faeries, go their way unoffended or defended by any argument of mine.

The things a man has heard and seen are threads of life, and if he pull

them carefully from the confused distaff of memory, any who will can

weave them into whatever garments of belief please them best. I too

have woven my garment like another, but I shall try to keep warm in it,

and shall be well content if it do not unbecome me.

Hope and Memory have one daughter and her name is Art, and she has

built her dwelling far from the desperate field where men hang out

their garments upon forked boughs to be banners of battle. O beloved

daughter of Hope and Memory, be with me for a little.