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1 " The baker kneads; the weaver knits;The smithy plies the sun-bright steel;The potter turns; the farmer plants;The miller grinds his dusty meal.While I my quill in trembling handPen odes to please the fickle throng;The greatest craftsman of them all, Save only she who sings my song. "
2 " Welcome, O life! I go to encounter for the millionth time the reality of experience and to forge in the smithy of my soul the uncreated conscience of my race. "
― James Joyce , A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man
