Although I Can See Him Still, The Freckled Man Who Goes To A Grey Place On A Hill In Grey Connemara Clothes At Dawn To Cast His Flies, It's Long Since I Began To Call Up To The Eyes This Wise And Simple Man. All Day I'd Looked In The Face What I Had Hoped 'Twould Be To Write For My Own Race And The Reality; The Living Men That I Hate, The Dead Man That I Loved, The Craven Man In His Seat, The Insolent Unreproved, And No Knave Brought To Book Who Has Won A Drunken Cheer, The Witty Man And His Joke Aimed At The Commonest Ear, The Clever Man Who Cries The Catch-Cries Of The Clown, The Beating Down Of The Wise And Great Art Beaten Down. Maybe A Twelvemonth Since Suddenly I Began, In Scorn Of This Audience, Imagining A Man And His Sun-Freckled Face, And Grey Connemara Cloth, Climbing Up To A Place Where Stone Is Dark Under Froth, And The Down Turn Of His Wrist When The Flies Drop In The Stream: A Man Who Does Not Exist, A Man Who Is But A Dream; And Cried, 'Before I Am Old I Shall Have Written Him One Poem Maybe As Cold And Passionate As The Dawn.'