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

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

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.

A man who is not afraid of the sea will soon be drowned, for he will be going out on a day when he shouldn't.

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

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.