Never know whose thoughts you’re chewing.
Nature abhors a vacuum.
Moments of their secret life together burst like stars upon his memory.
Man and woman, love, what is it? A cork and bottle.
Love, yes. Word known to all men.
Love loves to love love.
Let us leave theories there and return to here’s here.
Let my country die for me.
It is a symbol of Irish art. The cracked lookingglass of a servant.
Ireland sober is Ireland stiff.
Ireland is the old sow that eats her farrow.
In this life our sorrows are either not very long or not very great because nature either overcomes them by habits or puts an end to them by sinking under their weight.
