Time is, time was, but time shall be no more.

Ireland is the old sow that eats her farrow.

He could not feel her near him in the darkness nor hear her voice touch his ear. He waited for some minutes listening. He could hear nothing: the night was perfectly silent. He listened again: perfectly silent. He felt that he was alone.

She would follow, her dream of love, the dictates of her heart that told her he was her all in all, the only man in all the world for her for love was the master guide. Come what might she would be wild, untrammelled, free.

It is as painful perhaps to be awakened from a vision as to be born.

Better pass boldly into that other world, in the full glory of some passion, than fade and wither dismally with age.

For myself, I always write about Dublin, because if I can get to the heart of Dublin I can get to the heart of all the cities of the world. In the particular is contained the universal.