People Trample Over Flowers, Yet Only To

Hell Is The Centre Of Evils And, As You Know, Things Are More Intense At Their Centres Than At Their Remotest Points.

[a Writer Is] A Priest Of Eternal Imagination, Transmuting The Daily Bread Of Experience Into The Radiant Body Of Everliving Life.

If Ireland Is To Become A New Ireland She Must First Become European.

Full Many A Flower Is Born To Blush Unseen.

Hold To The Now, The Here, Through Which All Future Plunges To The Past.