#irish lit

How could she be with me one moment and the next not? How could she be elsewhere, absolutely? That was what I could

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home: the word gives me a shove, and I stumble.

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Perhaps all of life is no more than a long preparation for the leaving of it.

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Night, and everything so quiet, as if there were no one, not even myself.

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He heard what her eyes said to him from beneath their cowl and knew that in some dim past, whether in life or revery, he

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To speak of these things and to try to understand their nature and, having understood it, to try slowly and humbly

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But I will tell you also what I do not fear. I do not fear to be alone or to be spurned for another or to leave whatever I

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…and touched with the wonder of mortal beauty, her face.

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