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.
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