The swift December dusk had come tumbling clownishly after its dull day and, as he stared through the dull square of the window of the schoolroom, he felt his belly crave for its food. He hoped there would be stew for dinner, turnips and carrots and bruised potatoes and fat mutton pieces to be ladled out in thick peppered flourfattened sauce. Stuff it into you, his belly counselled him.

Good puzzle would be cross Dublin without passing a pub.

Poetry, even when apparently most fantastic, is always a revolt against artifice, a revolt, in a sense, against actuality.

You get a decent do at the Brazen Head

His eyes were dimmed with tears and, looking humbly up to heaven, he wept for the innocence he had lost.

God made food; the devil the cooks.

The pleasures of love lasts but a fleeting but the pledges of life outlusts a lieftime.