He drew forth a phrase from his treasure and spoke it softly to himself: A day of dappled seaborne clouds.
Why is it that words like these seem dull and cold? Is it because there is no word tender enough to be your name?
Moments of their secret life together burst like stars upon his memory.
Can't bring back time. Like holding water in your hand.
When I die Dublin will be written on my heart.
Beware the horns of a bull, the heels of the horse, and the smile of an Englishman.