Real vision is the ability to see the invisible.
|Anon. North Cork, 1940s
Souls as White as Snow
Thoughts of childhood Christmases rekindle a warm glow
As I recall the magic of those days so long ago
The atmosphere within our home of happy expectation -
Of all the joys that lay ahead, so filled me with elation.
Coming up to Christmas, the shopping should be done,
Which meant the then rare pleasure of a journey into town
Where mother went from shop to shop buying Christmas treats
Fruit for the cakes and Christmas 'pud', some lemonade and sweets
Bread and herbs for stuffing, biscuits, chocolate and a 'Sup' -
To celebrate the 'Christmas' and cheer the adults up
Next preparation was confession, which enabled us to go
to receive Our Lord on Christmas morn, with souls as white as snow.
It is only an auctioneer that should admire all schools of art.
When anyone asks me about the Irish character, I say look at the trees. Maimed, stark and misshapen, but ferociously tenacious.
I want peace and quiet. I want it so much I'd die for it.
Have you seen the tidy cottage in the straggling, dusty street,
Where the roses swing their censers by the door?
Have you heard the happy prattle and the tramp of tiny feet
As the sturdy youngsters romp around the floor?
Did you wonder why the wiree comes to sing his sweetest song?
Did the subtle charm of home upon you fall?
Did you puzzle why it haunted you the while you passed along?
There's a Little Irish Mother there; that's all.
Notes: From The Little Irish Mother
Life springs from death; and from the graves of patriot men and women spring living nations.
|George Bernard Shaw
The shot Irishmen will now take their places beside Emmet and the Manchester Martyrs in Ireland, and beside the heroes of Poland and Serbia and Belgium in Europe; and nothing in heaven or earth can prevent it.
Notes: in a letter to the Daily News May 1916
I write it out in a verse -
MacDonagh and MacBride
And Connolly and Pearse
Now and in time to be,
Wherever green is worn,
Are changed, changed utterly:
A terrible beauty is born.
Notes: Easter, 1916
I'd wed you without herds,
without money or rich array,
And I'd wed you on a dewy morn
at day-dawn gray!
Notes: From Cashel of Munster
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