“Let my country die for me.”

Thought is the thought of thought.

Every jackass going the roads thinks he has ideas.

Ask no questions and you’ll hear no lies.

Love loves to love love.

Shakespeare is the happy hunting ground of all minds that have lost their balance.

An Irishman needs three things : silence, cunnning, and exile.

He wanted to cry quietly but not for himself: for the words, so beautiful and sad, like music.

We are all born in the same way but we all die in different ways.

Time’s ruins build eternity’s mansions.

Absence, the highest form of presence.

His heart danced upon her movement like a cork upon a tide.

It is as painful perhaps to be awakened from a vision as to be born.

There’s many a true word spoken in jest.

Bury the dead. Say Robinson Crusoe was true to life. Well then Friday buried him. Every Friday buries a Thursday if you come to look at it.

Why is it that words like these seem dull and cold? Is it because there is no word tender enough to be your name?

I am, a stride at a time. A very short space of time through very short time of space.