My words in her mind: cold polished stones sinking through a quagmire.

My words in her mind: cold polished stones sinking through a quagmire

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

The phrase and the day and the scene harmonized in a chord. Words. Was it their colours? He allowed them to glow and fade, hue after hue: sunrise gold, the russet and green of apple orchards, azure of waves, the greyfringed fleece of clouds. No it was not their colours: it was the poise and balance of the period itself. Did he then love the rhythmic rise and fall of words better than their associations of legend and colour? Or was it that, being as weak of sight as he was shy of mind, he drew less pleasure from the reflection of the glowing sensible world through the prism of a language manycoloured and richly storied than from the contemplation of an inner world of individual emotions mirrored perfectly in a lucid supple periodic prose?

Ireland is the old sow that eats her farrow.

Serce ludzkie bywa czasem tak zgłodniałe, że rzuca się nawet na kamienie, nie czując ich martwoty i chłodu.