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  <node>
    <title>Boyd127</title>
    <Collections>Boyd Letters</Collections>
    <Contributor>Boyd Estate</Contributor>
    <Coverage>19 Jan</Coverage>
    <Creator>Linen Hall Library</Creator>
    <Date>Wednesday, March 16, 2016</Date>
    <Format>TIFF</Format>
    <Identifier>Boyd127</Identifier>
    <ItemDescription>Letter</ItemDescription>
    <Keywords>Drama, Yeats</Keywords>
    <Language>English</Language>
    <Path>https://www.niliteraryarchive.com/content/boyd127</Path>
    <Publisher>Linen Hall Library</Publisher>
    <Relation>Linen Hall Library</Relation>
    <Rights>Attribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike CC BY-NC-SA</Rights>
    <Scannedimage>https://www.niliteraryarchive.com/sites/default/files/Boyd127_1.jpg</Scannedimage>
    <Source>LHL Archive</Source>
    <Transcript>﻿10
(I hear the siren of an
ambulance, and again whatany continuity
of thought I had is broken)
Yes, Yeats, We are all still
in his shadow, poets particularlyespecially.
As for his drama, his best -
I’m thinking of Purgatory and
The Death of Cuchulain - are
wonderful: and all of them have
interest. Still, BestIrish drama
hasn’t gone Yeats’s
way. Perhaps it will soonin the
future, who can tell?

I’ve come almost
to the end of this letter and
havetoldyou little about
life as we live it. 
</Transcript>
    <Type>Text</Type>
  </node>
</>
