I have often heard it said that the Irish are too ready to forgive. It is a noble failing.

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

January has only one thing to be said for it: it is followed by February. Nothing so well becomes its passing.

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

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.

Irish people have a trick of over-statement, at which one ceases to wince as one grows older.

The Irish always jest even though they jest with tears.