Yes.
I have a weirdo bloomsday correspondant, every year 16th June we send each other something.
He just sent me this:
KYRIE ELEISON!
A smile of light brightened his darkrimmed eyes, lengthened his long lips.
—The Greek! he said again.
Kyrios! Shining word! The vowels the Semite and the Saxon know not.
Kyrie! The radiance of the intellect. I ought to profess Greek, the language of the mind.
Kyrie eleison! The closetmaker and the cloacamaker will never be lords of our spirit. We are liege subjects of the catholic chivalry of Europe that foundered at Trafalgar and of the empire of the spirit, not an
imperium, that went under with the Athenian fleets at Aegospotami. Yes, yes. They went under. Pyrrhus, misled by an oracle, made a last attempt to retrieve the fortunes of Greece. Loyal to a lost cause.
He strode away from them towards the window.
—They went forth to battle, Mr O’Madden Burke said greyly, but they always fell.
—Boohoo! Lenehan wept with a little noise. Owing to a brick received in the latter half of the
matinée. Poor, poor, poor Pyrrhus!
I sent him this:
"Every life is in many days, day after day. We walk through ourselves, meeting robbers, ghosts, giants, old men, young men, wives, widows, brothers-in-love, but always meeting ourselves."