I Will Not Say Nothing. I Will

The Heaventree Of Stars Hung With Humid Nightblue Fruit.

And In Spite Of Everything, Ireland Remains The Brain Of The Kingdom. The English, Judiciously Practical And Ponderous, Furnish The Over-stuffed Stomach Of Humanity With A Perfect Gadget--the Water Closet. The Irish, Condemned To Express Themselves In A Language Not Their Own, Have Stamped On It The Mark Of Their Own Genius And Compete For Glory With The Civilized Nations. This Is Then Called English Literature.

As You Are Now So Once Were We.

It Seems To Me You Do Not Care What Banality A Man Expresses So Long As He Expresses It In Irish.

A Woman Loses A Charm With Every Pin She Takes Out.