O, the red rose may be fair, And the lily statelier But my shamrock, one in three Takes the very heart of me!

The kind need kindness most of all.

the way with Ireland is that no sooner do you get away from her than the golden mists begin to close about her, and she lies, an Island of the Blest, something enchanted in our dreams. When you come back you may think you are disillusioned, but you know well that the fairy mists will begin to gather about her once more.

Religion dies hard in the Irish.

January has only one thing to be said for it: it is followed by February. Nothing so well becomes its passing.

Irish people have a trick of over-statement, at which one ceases to wince as one grows older.

There is an Irish way of paying compliments as though they were irresistible truths which makes what would otherwise be an impertinence delightful.

... Hope is at the bottom of the Pandora's box of Irish troubles, and I believe proudly and firmly in the ultimate destinies of my country.

To be a saint does not exclude fine dresses nor a beautiful house.

It is a horrible demoralizing thing to be a lawyer. You look for such low motives in everyone and everything.

The trouble with the Irish question always has been that it was an English question.

The life in which nothing happens goes the fastest, because it has no landmarks.

Often our bad moments are self-propelled ... And the drama is almost exclusively within our heads and hearts.

It's a strange thing now how people will know they're dying themselves when no one else could suspect anything wrong at all with them.

I have often heard it said that the Irish are too ready to forgive. It is a noble failing.