Eire Quotes

Memory is the most potent truth. Show me history untouched by memories and you show me lies.

An Druides be, thanne answere me: whos love in Eire is moste fyn and fre?" Herne "whether in bedde or in feeld do ye meet, Flidais awaiteth your limbes to greet." Atticus

He set the RAM on the desk, then reached into his back pocket to pull out his grimoire. The size of a small paperback novel, it'd been a gift from Ambrose to help him understand some of the madness that surrounded him, and to answer some of the "other" questions that came up. "All right, Nashira," Nick said in a low tone. "Talk to me. What the heck is watching me?" He slid his knife out of his pocket, opened the book, and pricked his finger, allowing three drops of blood to touch a blank page. "Dredanya eire coulet" he whispered, waking the female spirit who lived inside the enchanted pages. The moment he finished speaking, his blood began swirling until it formed words: Do not fear that which cannot be seen. For they are lost in between. 'Tis the ones who come alive That your blood will allow to thrive. Nick snorted at the cryptic stanzas. "Not really useful, Nashira. Doesn't answer my question." His blood crawled over to the next page. Answer, answer, you always say, But it doesn't work that way. In time, the truth you shall find. And then you will understand my rhyme. "I'm such a masochist to even try talking to you" Underneath the words, a picture of an obscene gesture formed. "Oh very nice, Nashira. Very nice. Wherever did you learn that?" In your pocket I reside. Ever privy to your deride. But more than that, I can see. And that includes bathroom stall graffiti Nick screwed his face up in distaste. "Oh my God, no. Tell me you haven't been spying on me in the rest room. You perv!" Calm yourself, you evil troll. My job is not to console. But if it is privacy you seek, Leave me in your backpack so I can't peek. Now he understood why other people got so aggravated with his attitude disorder. He wanted to strangle his book.

I find it quite incredible how much peace and quiet a person actually needs in order to devote himself entirely to his thoughts.

Happiness includes all numbers. It's infinite and eternal.

I try to clutch onto those last moments in the place that I was born to, but I was so busy *living* them! How was I to know I'd have to capture everything I ever wanted to remember of Eire for the rest of my life?

THE ROSE TOTHE ROSE UPON THE ROOD OF TIME Red Rose, proud Rose, sad Rose of all my days! Come near me, while I sing the ancient ways: Cuchulain battling with the bitter tide; The Druid, grey, wood-nurtured, quiet-eyed, Who cast round Fergus dreams, and ruin untold; And thine own sadness, where of stars, grown old In dancing silver-sandalled on the sea, Sing in their high and lonely melody. Come near, that no more blinded by man’s fate, I find under the boughs of love and hate, In all poor foolish things that live a day, Eternal beauty wandering on her way. Come near, come near, come near — Ah, leave me still A little space for the rose-breath to fill! Lest I no more bear common things that crave; The weak worm hiding down in its small cave, The field-mouse running by me in the grass, And heavy mortal hopes that toil and pass; But seek alone to hear the strange things said By God to the bright hearts of those long dead, And learn to chaunt a tongue men do not know. Come near; I would, before my time to go, Sing of old Eire and the ancient ways: Red Rose, proud Rose, sad Rose of all my days. A king is but a foolish labourer Who wastes his blood to be another’s dream.

Feeling inferior or unworthy is like a flashing red light letting you know an EIRS or a drama triangle may be sucking you in. If you learn to interpret inferiority sensations as warnings that someone is trying to use you for their own self-esteem needs, you can step back and maintain your autonomy and positive self-concept.

And there, on that road, that very minute, he started to play - the most lonesome music that them priests ever in their lives heard. It brought water out o' their teeth, so it did.

In this place on my own The sea outside wraps this house of stone Winter hums a chilly winter tune Brushing through the stacks of sand dunes

Aenda Crav,” said Garal, eir tone mild but eir voice still loud enough to carry halfway across the plaza, “and Thers Rathem, and you, Chorem Caellas, you all flew here from the capital this morning so you could shout questions at me in person, but you can’t bring yourself to use the name I want to go by. None of you can, apparently, except for District Voice here.

Out-worn heart, in a time out-worn, Come clear of the nets of wrong and right; Laugh, heart, again in the gray twilight, Sigh, heart, again in the dew of the moon. Your mother Eire is always young, Dew ever shining and twilight gray; Though hope fall from you and love decay, Burning in fires of a slanderous tongue. Come, heart, where hill is heaped upon hill: For there the mystical brotherhood Of sun and moon and hollow and wood And river and stream work out their will; And God stands winding His lonely horn, And time and the world are ever in flight; And love is less kind than the gray twilight, And hope is less dear than the dew of the morn.

they dance so fast, good and evil, these two polar opposites. So tightly and furiously. You can’t dance with just one of these partners. If you cut into their dance, you end up with both, as a threesome. And if you fear cutting into the dance and taking a spin with good and evil, you end up dancing with the cross-eyed, ugly chaperone. Even the deepest, most wondrous love can sometimes bring you to that dismal dance, and then every single tune is a tango. A bad tango composed by an angry, drunken Argentine just for you and your loved one. A tango that never ends. But back to those Cuban parties: no dancing there. None at all. Furious

You mustn't bury yourself alive, forget to rise up, or bind yourself to the dust in melancholy surrender.

I'm sure I've been damaged by philosophy.

Who're them?" says he to the curate. "Them are the fallen angels," says the curate. They had a human form, no wings. God took the wings off of 'em after Lucifer rebelled - that way they couldn't go back, d'you see. They had no wings. But there was so many of 'em that you couldn't drive a knife down between 'em. They were as thick as hair on a dog's back. They were the finest people he ever seen. And whatever way he looked at 'em, some o' the finest girls he ever seen was in it, he said. They had to be good-looking, you know! 'Twas the sin o' pride put Lucifer down, d'you see. The best-looking angel in Heaven, 'twas the sin o' pride put him down. I s'pose they were nearly all as good-looking.

Faolan stretched out on the blanket, propping his head on one elbow thoughtfully. “Eire is fine enough, I suppose,” he began, “but if I could have one wish, I’d show ye my Highlands. I’d take ye to the tops of the mountains and show ye where the golden eagles nest. I want ye to see the sun rise and set over the moors. I want to make love to ye in the heather with the warm sun beating down on us.” His eyes widened as an idea occurred to him. “We could sail out to one of the far islands and have it all to ourselves, like Adam and Eve in our very own Eden. I’d take ye walking on the beach in the moonlight, and I wouldna have to share ye with anyone but the selkies.” He gave her hand a gentle squeeze. “I’d teach ye to ride and hunt and fish, mo ruadh, and bank the fires to keep ye warm through the cold winter months.” With a blissful sigh, he pulled her tight against him and buried his face in the crook of her neck. “‘Twould be heaven for sure,” he said, and she could hear the smile in his voice when his lips brushed her ear, “pizza or no.

I think that home shouldn't be a place you need to leave if you want to experience something in consonance with your innermost being. Home should be a place of experimentation and discovery, a place of peace and quiet where the most natural in each individual can be developed in fine-tuning to the desires and searches of others.

Yes...I love how the Irish are so comfortable with paradox that they revel in it. In fact, if you took it away from them, I suspect they would start gasping like fish out of water. No wonder their land's name, now removed from its Gaelic notions of abundance in 'eire,' evokes anger, or 'ire,' and yet also the rich, cooling green of a sea-colored jewel. A 'terrible beauty' indeed. They understand oppression and repression and explosion, but they remain a culture of faith-faith that creaks and groans and pulls, but is alive and never dull. And which urges them to art, to poetry, to song-these, too, are forms of action. Of passion. Of conviction. Yes, of love.

… in these new days and in these new pages a philosophical tradition of the spontaneity of speculation kind has been rekindled on the sacred isle of Éire, regardless of its creative custodian never having been taught how to freely speculate, how to profoundly question, and how to playfully define. Spontaneity of speculation being synonymous with the philosophical-poetic, the philosophical-poetic with the rural philosopher-poet, and by roundelay the rural philosopher-poet thee with the spontaneity of speculation be. And by the way of the rural what may we say? A philosopher-poet of illimitable space we say. Iohannes Scottus Ériugena the metaphor of old salutes you; salutes your lyrical ear and your skilful strumming of the rippling harp. (Source: Hearing in the Write, Canto 19, Ivy-muffled)

Next I want to try living apart together, live in the same country, the same city, even the same building as whomever I'm in a relationship with, yet in a different apartment than him. Then it would be possible to pay him visits and still invite good friends over to my place. Do you think you have that it takes to maintain such a French arrangement? he asked. Well, no, probably not...but then again...? Maybe it would be better in the long run to stay in a more lasting relationship and not need to move so often.

Have you ever watched a storm approaching on a hot summer’s day? It’s especially spectacular in the mountains. At first there’s nothing to see, but you feel a sort of weariness that tells you something is in the air. Then you hear thunder - just a rumble here and there- you can’t quite tell where it is coming from. All of a sudden, the mountains seem strangely near. There isn't a breath of wind, yet dense clouds pile up in the sky. And now the mountains have almost vanished behind a wall of haze. Clouds rush in from all sides, but still there’s no wind. There’s more thunder now, and everything around looks eir and menacing. You wait and wait. And then, suddenly, it erupts. At first it is almost a release. The storm descends into the valley. There’s thunder and lightning everywhere. The rain clatters down in huge drops. The storm is trapped in the narrow cleft of the valley and thunderclaps echo and reverberate off the steep mountain sides. The wind buffets you from every angle. And when the storm finally moves away, leaving in its place a clear, still, starlit night, you can hardly remember where those thunderclouds were, let alone which thunderclap belonged to which flash of lightning.

You’re going to choke one of these days,” I tell him, feeling some of the tension from dealing with Flint ebb away. Eir shakes his head, still chewing and I say, “Wait until you swallow to speak, please.” I smile and get up to get coffee for myself. Eir swallows and says, “How many cups does that make for you today, sister dear?” I grin at him and lean against the counter. “I’d rather not say,” I tell him and he laughs. Eir looks at Flint. “My sister is the only person I know who can drink her weight in coffee and still come back for more. She has a serious caffeine addiction.” I laugh despite myself, ignoring Flint and the smirk I’m certain is on his face. Flint chuckles. “I never would have guessed.

Stopping outside my brother’s bedroom door, I take a deep breath and try to prepare myself for whatever happens next. I knock on his door and hear an unhappy groan echo from inside the room. I grin despite the reason for my visit. Where I have always been an early riser, my brother will sleep the day away if he’s allowed. I knock again and call out, “Eir, can I come in? I need to talk to you.” I hear muffled sounds that indicate he most likely has his head buried under his pillow in an effort to block out my voice. I knock again anyway. “Eirnin — come on, it’s after ten. Time to start your day.” I hear something soft thump against the other side of the door and have to bite my lip to keep from laughing. I count to ten in my head and then shout, “I’m counting to five and then I’m coming in, Eir!” We call this fair warning in our house. “No counting!” I hear him bellow, no longer muffled. The mattress groans, I hear two large feet hit the floor and he says, “Why do you hate sleep and the people who enjoy it?

Stopping outside my brother’s bedroom door, I take a deep breath and try to prepare myself for whatever happens next. I knock on his door and hear an unhappy groan echo from inside the room. I grin despite the reason for my visit. Where I have always been an early riser, my brother will sleep the day away if he’s allowed. I knock again and call out, “Eir, can I come in? I need to talk to you.” I hear muffled sounds that indicate he most likely has his head buried under his pillow in an effort to block out my voice. I knock again anyway. “Eirnin — come on, it’s after ten. Time to start your day.” I hear something soft thump against the other side of the door and have to bite my lip to keep from laughing. I count to ten in my head and then shout, “I’m counting to five and then I’m coming in, Eir!” We call this fair warning in our house. “No counting!” I hear him bellow, no longer muffled. The mattress groans, I hear two large feet hit the floor and he says, “Why do you hate sleep and the people who enjoy it?

That’s not Eire. Everyone always thinks that, but we’re not shamrocks and wee men. You should know the difference.

To initiate its EIR program, USCIS would also turn to an agitator. Brad Feld, an early-stage investor and prolific blogger, had become exasperated when officers of two promising startups under his watch were forced to return to their home countries because they couldn’t secure visas. He shared their story on a blog, attracting the attention of other entrepreneurs, including Ries, who couldn’t understand why there was no visa category for an entrepreneur with American investors and employees. In lieu of that category, many entrepreneurs were at the mercy of visa examiners who didn’t understand how they operated. At the point of visa application, many startups had not hired many employees or generated much revenue. This confused traditional visa examiners, who would then ask odd and irrelevant questions, often before a denial. To give just one example, it’s been years since AOL required a compact disc to use its service. And yet, visa examiners were demanding proof of a warehouse, where software startups would store their CD inventory for shipping to customers. As Feld’s idea of a “startup visa” became intertwined with, and paralyzed by, the broader debate on comprehensive immigration reform, the USCIS, with White House support, sought to accomplish something administratively within the existing law. It instituted an EIR program, to organize and educate a specialty unit of immigration officers to handle entrepreneur and startup nonimmigrant visa cases.22 The project also called for educating entrepreneurs about the available options, one of which they may have overlooked. For instance, the O-1 visa, which was reserved “for those with extraordinary ability,” had proven a successful channel for actors, athletes, musicians, directors, scientists, artists, businessmen, engineers, and others who could provide ample evidence of their unique and impressive abilities, attributes, awards, and accolades. It had even created some controversy, when visa evaluators took the term “model” to an extreme, awarding a visa to one of Hugh Hefner’s ex-girlfriends, a Playboy centerfold from Canada named Shera Berchard.23 If she was confident enough to assert and explain her “extraordinary ability,” why weren’t entrepreneurs?

Like the team at the FDA, the EIR team enlisted entrepreneurs familiar with the obstacles, including SoftLayer senior executive Paul Ford, to work alongside the USCIS personnel committed to removing or clearing them. “You get fresh thinking, you get a very low-cost way of trying to impact the situation because the people doing this are committed to try to find what’s not working and propose solutions, rather than take a partisan or political or hierarchical or structural view to the environment,” Feld said. “They’re short-timers, so they’re committed for a period of time to come do something, but they’re not here for career advancement, so they are going to speak their mind.” Feld also believed that the presence of Ford and other outside entrepreneurs made the participants feel more comfortable to speak freely than if they had been working with government officials alone. In the spring of 2012, the team began building a prototype of an alternative application process for entrepreneurs and by fall had achieved a significant breakthrough: the launch of the Entrepreneurship Pathways web portal, designed to close the information gap between USCIS and those in the entrepreneurial community, by letting them know which visa may be most appropriate—including the O-1—for their situation.24 While the results of this exercise were not empirically conclusive at the time of an interview for this book, Feld did offer his anecdotal assessment “that there’s an increased number of people who I know have been able to get into the country and get valid visas who are entrepreneurs. I’ve definitely heard a decrease in the negative.

Eventually they made land — Eber with the survivors of his following landing at Inver Sceni, in Bantry Bay; and afterwards defeating a De Danann host under Queen Eire but losing their own Queen Scota in the fray — and Eremon with his people at Inver Colpa (mouth of the Boyne). When they had joined their forces, in Meath, they went against the De Danann in general battle at Taillte, and routed the latter with great slaughter. The three kings and the three queens of the De Danann were slain, many of them killed, and the remainder dispersed. The survivors fled into the remote hills and into the caves.

Those days when Conor MacNessa sat on the throne of Ulster were brilliant days in Ireland’s history. Then was the sun of glory in the zenith of Eire’s Heroic period — the period of chivalry, chiefly created by the famous Royal or Red Branch Knights of Emania. Though, two other famous bands of Irish warriors gave added lustre to the period — the Gamanraide of the West (who were Firbolgs), and the Clanna Deaghaid of Munster led by Curoi MacDaire.

I always dream of it: that something will open my eyes, and open everything inside me as well.

I wanted to tell it like it is, that they were right: it's nerve-wracking being a teenager. But instead, I explained to them the importance of being a trusted friend, and that friendship made the teenage years fun, when true camaraderie grew and developed.

She said it was no use waiting for trust to come to you fully formed, and then go and create a life and home together; you just had to start living with the person you loved best, and trust would build over time.

Still, we've attempted to argue when necessary; you've got to be able to let loose and even lose your temper a bit if you're finding it hard to breathe. Closeness has to be like running water; it mustn't stagnate and sour.

Will we always find faults with our accommodations because of the turmoil in our own hearts?

It was my ornithologist, calling to remind me that I'm a ptarmigan and must be careful of falcons!

Might she have loved her brother so much that she was incapable of loving others?

And he added that he tried to ground himself regularly, but often just forgot to. Me too, I said.

Before he left, he took an ivy leaf from a book that was in his pocket and handed it to me, with greetings from Pentagonia, the kingdom of dark green pentangles. Should we get ourselves a place there? I said of course.

Prologue When the ancient bards wove the tale of the great O’Quinlan clan in Navan, Eire, they foretold of destinies that would forever change the lives of these noble warriors. One might deem that it all began with the eldest male, yet, the story began with the youngest – a daughter. To protect Fiona O’Quinlan from the enemy of their clan, her brother, Desmond, sought out a Fenian Fae Warrior to escort her to safety during a fierce battle. However, as with any request to the Fae, all did not go as Desmond wished. The Fae had already set in motion their own plan, and their sister was sent to another time. The O’Quinlan clan would not be reunited with Fiona for many years. When they were, they were told her fate was destined with another – Alastair MacKay, a feared, and battle-scarred Dragon Knight. Though Desmond and his brothers eventually accepted their sister’s love for the MacKay, Desmond harbored lingering doubts over the match. And as one year bled into the next, Desmond’s anger at the MacKay grew. Unbeknown to Desmond, his time had come to fulfill the bardic prophecy and take his place as a ruling warrior. Furthermore, in order to step forward on his journey, he must relinquish the fury of the past and open his heart and mind to only one emotion. Love.

It's one thing to remember, another to get stuck. Why don't people buy notepads and write poems instead of sit around on historical poem-pillows watching TV? Why not renew Romanticism, re-clarify the relationship between creation and memory?

It's so embarrassing to think that someone is actually interested in what you're thinking. And in that regard, it's almost unbelievable that autobiographies are published. Who cares about your story?

Seattle, Boston, Phoenix, Milwaukee, Orlando, and the youngest, Chicago.

And it was the fair-haired Vikings from Norway who, coming to the pleasant island west of Britain, explored its natural harbours and, converting its Celtic name—Eriu, which they pronounced Eire—into their own tongue, first gave the place the Nordic name of Ire-land.

«Eir slowly reached up and cupped Bjárr’s head, then placed his forehead against Bjárr’s. "A moment to exist together. In silence».

Brünnhilde of Skiir—Valkyrie Eir of Brünnhilde—Valkyrie Gwyn of Eir—Valkyrie Skaga of Eir—Valkyrie Kara of Eir—Valkyrie Maya of Eir—Valkyrie Kai of Eir—Dark Searcher Giovanni Angelo of Brünnhilde—Dark Searcher Kris of Brünnhilde—Dark Searcher Myriam-Elizabet of Giovanni Angelo—Valkyrie

Above all, the Governments of China and Eire, poor in their own resources, full of their own difficulties, yet having had bitter experience themselves of famine and misery and sensing what ailed the body and spirit of India, gave generous help.

If you ever need to awaken quickly from a deep, deep sleep arrange to have two Cuban mothers shout at your bedside as if their children have been hurt.

Gathering eir courage, e bowed and placed the basket of honey and fine handspun yarns at the witch's feet. 'I know who you are and what you seek,' the witch said in a deep melodious voice. 'It is inside my home. Take your cloak and go inside. When you find what you want, you will know the price you must pay.

My Éireann by Stewart Stafford Éireann is my maiden, Titian grace spun gold, Fêted for her fairness, A goddess sacrificed. All-seeing eye of piety, But mauled with scars, In repose and melding, With the ire of the land. In perennial motion, Rivers meet the sea, Gaze upon a dark pool, Soubrette for new suitors. © Stewart Stafford, 2022. All rights reserved.

Where are you going?” she asked him. “Somewhere beautiful,” he said. “Where all wars cease, where God sees goodness, not religion. Where the grass is as ever green as that I knew in Eire.

Let Your Imagination Take Flight

Odin the Alfödr, Frigga the Goddess of Marriage, Eir the Goddess of Healing, Sif the Goddess of Beauty and Harvest, Idunn

we had it on a cake. Keik. Or more properly, in that relaxed, African Spanish of Cuba, kei. That’s what we called them, keikes, or keiis, in the plural. Not tortas or pasteles, the proper Spanish names. Never, ever, ever did we call a cake a bollo, as in other Spanish-speaking countries. In Cuba bollo had somehow evolved into the swear word for a woman’s

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