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I knew the stars, the flowers, and the birds, The gray and wintry sides of many glens, And did but half remember human words, In converse with the mountains, moors, and fens.

John Millington Synge

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John Millington Synge
Age: 37 †
Born: 1871
Born: April 16
Died: 1909
Died: March 24
Librettist
Playwright
Poet
Writer
J. M. Synge
Edmund John Millington Synge
Stars
Gray
Half
Birds
Words
Flowers
Remember
Bird
Wintry
Human
Mountain
Moors
Humans
Flower
Converse
Many
Knew
Converses
Sides
Mountains

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In the middle classes the gifted son of a family is always the poorest -- usually a writer or artist with no sense for speculation -- and in a family of peasants, where the average comfort is just over penury, the gifted son sinks also, and is soon a tramp on the roadside.
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At first I threw my weight upon my heels, as one does naturally in a boot, and was a good deal bruised, but after a few hours I learned the natural walk of man, and could follow my guide in any portion of the island.
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There is no language like the Irish for soothing and quieting.
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When I was writing The Shadow of the Glen I got more aid than any learning could have given me from a chink in the floor of the old Wicklow house where I was staying, that let me hear what was being said by the servent girls in the kitchen.
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The general knowledge of time on the island depends, curiously enough, on the direction of the wind.
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In a good play every speech should be as fully flavored as a nut or apple.
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Drink a health to the wonders of the western world, the pirates, preachers, poteen-makers, with the jobbing jockies parching peelers, and the juries fill their stomachs selling judgments of the English law.
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Lord, confound this surly sister, blight her brow with blotch and blister, cramp her larynx, lung and liver, in her guts a galling give her.
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What is the price of a thousand horses against a son where there is one son only?
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A week of sweeping fogs has passed over and given me a strange sense of exile and desolation. I walk round the island nearly every day, yet I can see nothing anywhere but a mass of wet rock, a strip of surf, and then a tumult of waves.
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A man who is not afraid of the sea will soon be drowned, for he will be going out on a day when he shouldn't.
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It is the timber of poetry that wears most surely, and there is no timber that has not strong roots among the clay and worms.
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