A poet can read. A poet can write. A poet is African in Africa, or Irish in Ireland, or French on the left bank of Paris, or white in Wisconsi...
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The point is obvious. There is more than one way to burn a book. And the world is full of people running about with lit matches. Every minority, be it Baptist/Unitarian, Irish/Italian/Octogenarian/Zen Buddhist, Zionist/Seventhday Adventist, Women's Lib/Republican, Mattachine/Four Square Gospel feels it has the will, the right, the duty to douse the kerosene, light the fuse. Every dimwit editor whosees himself as the source of all dreary blanc-mange plain porridge unleavened literature, licks his guillotine and eyes the neck of any author who dares to speak above a whisper or write above a nursery rhyme.
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I am among those Americans whose ancestors include men and women from many different European countries. The proportion of Americans of this type will steadily increase. I do not believe in hyphenated Americans. I do not believe in German-Americans or Irish-Americans; and I believe just as little in English-Americans. I do not approve of American citizens of German descent forming organizations to force the United States into practical alliance with Germany because their ancestors came from Germany. Just as little do I believe in American citizens of English descent forming leagues to force the United States into an alliance with England because their ancestors came from England.
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A man once asked to shake hands with me, the greatest Englishman who ever lived. I replied, F**k off, I'm Irish.
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May there always be work for your hands to do, May your purse always hold a coin or two. May the sun always shine warm on your windowpane, May a rainbow be certain to follow each rain. May the hand of a friend always be near you, And may God fill your heart with gladness to cheer you.
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May the sun always shine on your windowpane May a rainbow be certain to follow each rain May the hand of a friend always be near you May God fill your heart with gladness to cheer you.
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Do you know what I like about the Irish team ? They are the only team to who come off at the end of the game and ask "Who won ?".
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Do you know what I like about the Irish team ? They are the only team to who come off at the end of the game and ask 'Who won ?'.
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(About her Mum) She was entrancing, fantastic at making up rhymes and stories. I think it was her Irish syntax and voice music that started my love of words.
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In all sincerity, we offer to the loved ones of all innocent victims over the past 25 years, abject and true remorse. No words of ours will co...
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You'll never plow a field by turning it over in your mind.
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Other people have a nationality. The Irish and the Jews have a psychosis.
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I have good genes. My father is Danish and my mother is Irish and Native American. They both have good skin.
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Cast a cold eye On life, on death. Horseman, pass by!
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If it was raining soup, the Irish would go out with forks.
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You've got to do your own growing, no matter how tall your grandfather was.
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In the genuine hope that this peace will be permanent, we take the opportunity to pay homage to all our fighters, commandos and volunteers who...
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Sport and death are the two great socializing factors in Ireland ...
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Ireland is a great country to die or be married in.
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Wisdom is a comb given to a man once he is bald.
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Every invalid is a doctor.
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May the road rise to meet you. May the wind always be at your back. May the sun shine warm upon your face, the rains fall soft upon your fields and, until we meet again, may God hold you in the palm of his hand.
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Better be quarrelling than lonesome.
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The older the fiddle the sweeter the tune.
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It is not a fish until it is on the bank.
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I will try to follow the advice that a university president once gave a prospective commencement speaker. 'Think of yourself as the body at an Irish wake,' he said. 'They need you in order to have the party, but no one expects you to say very much.'
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Better be quarreling than lonesome.
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I rather think the cinema will die. Look at the energy being exerted to revive it -- yesterday it was color, today three dimensions. I don't give it forty years more. Witness the decline of conversation. Only the Irish have remained incomparable conversationalists, maybe because technical progress has passed them by.
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A hair on the head is worth two on the brush.
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A turkey never voted for an early Christmas.
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