Lord, confound this surly sister, blight her brow with blotch and blister, cramp her larynx, lung and liver, in her guts a galling give her.

They're cheering a young lad, the champion playboy of the Western World.

A week of sweeping fogs has passed over and given me a strange sense of exile and desolation. I walk round the island nearly every day, yet I can see nothing anywhere but a mass of wet rock, a strip of surf, and then a tumult of waves.

There is no language like the Irish for soothing and quieting.

It is the timber of poetry that wears most surely, and there is no timber that has not strong roots among the clay and worms.

Lord, confound this surly sister, blight her brow with blotch and blister, cramp her larynx, lung and liver, in her guts a galling give her.

A translation is no translation unless it will give you the music of a poem along with the words of it.