But my body was like a harp and her words and gestures were like fingers running upon the wires.

Save the trees of Ireland for the future men of Ireland on the fair hills of Eire, O.

(...) You cruel creature, little mite of a thing with a heart the size of a fullstop.

Thanks be to God we lived so long and did so much good.

If the Irish programme did not insist on the Irish language I suppose I could call myself a nationalist. As it is, I am content torecognize myself an exile: and, prophetically, a repudiated one.

Thought is the thought of thought.

The heaventree of stars hung with humid nightblue fruit.