Come away, O human child!
To the waters and the wild
With a faery, hand in hand,
For the world's more full of weeping
Than you can understand.
--William Butler Yeats
She was a summer dance at the crossroads.
She was a card game where a nose was broken.
She was a song that nobody sings.
She was a house ransacked by soldiers.
She was a language seldom spoken.
She was a child's purse, full of useless things.
-- from Death of an Irishwoman, by Michael Hartnett
There is no present or future,
only the past happening
over and over again, now.
--Eugene O'Neill
Somewhere on the road from Dingle through Tralee and north to the Tarbert ferry crossing, we passed, huddled in weeds under trees by the side of the road, a ruined stone structure to which a stuccoed addition had been attached, a onetime rural pub surely done in by the tough Irish "drink driving" laws.
At one end was a red door with a sign the identified the pub as "The Bay" but it was the yellow door at the other end with the broken pane of glass and the lucky yellow horseshoe that spoke to me.
The town of Dingle is as quirky and charming as any place
to be found in Ireland. This window was directly across the
road from our third floor rental apartment.
Взято отсюда. Потом выложу ещё что-нибудь.