Every Jackass Going The Roads Thinks He

Better Pass Boldly Into That Other World, In The Full Glory Of Some Passion, Than Fade And Wither Dismally With Age.

When The Short Days Of Winter Came, Dusk Fell Before We Had Well Eaten Our Dinners. When We Met In The Street The Houses Had Grown Sombre. The Space Of Sky Above Us Was The Colour Of Ever-changing Violet And Towards It The Lamps Of The Street Lifted Their Feeble Lanterns. The Cold Air Stung Us And We Played Till Our Bodies Glowed. Our Shouts Echoed In The Silent Street.

History, Stephen Said, Is A Nightmare From Which I Am Trying To Awake.

Save The Trees Of Ireland For The Future Men Of Ireland On The Fair Hills Of Eire, O.

The Mocker Is Never Taken Seriously When He Is Most Serious.