To be a saint does not exclude fine dresses nor a beautiful house.

Religion dies hard in the Irish.

Often our bad moments are self-propelled ... And the drama is almost exclusively within our heads and hearts.

O, the red rose may be fair, And the lily statelier; But my shamrock, one in three Takes the very heart of me!

There is an Irish way of paying compliments as though they were irresistible truths which makes what would otherwise be an impertinence delightful.

The kind need kindness most of all.

the way with Ireland is that no sooner do you get away from her than the golden mists begin to close about her, and she lies, an Island of the Blest, something enchanted in our dreams. When you come back you may think you are disillusioned, but you know well that the fairy mists will begin to gather about her once more.