In this cry of pain the inner consciousness of the people seems to lay itself bare for an instant, and to reveal the mood of beings who feel their isolation in the face of a universe that wars on them with winds and seas.

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

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

The general knowledge of time on the island depends, curiously enough, on the direction of the wind.

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.

Every article on these islands has an almost personal character, which gives this simple life, where all art is unknown, something of the artistic beauty of medieval life.

Words, particularly in a play, should have the texture of a crisp, autumn apple.