Oisin Quotes

I've learned that, at certain points, even if we're of such different cultures, we can think alike, and understand each other easier than we may expect.

One learns most when one wanders the world.

A girl is there. Dressed in a dirty rag of a dress, turning to look at him with the large, gold eyes that have studied everything from the rafters. Her hair in the overhead light appears dark for an instant, then when she shifts, fair. She is there in vivid detail, down to a mustache of beaded water above her generous mouth. A dead girl, looking more real and more alive than anyone he has ever seen. She is not the girl—Oisin knows this with an instant, wrenching disappointment—whom he has been waiting for.

Love your enemies you might, but when the entire country and its people depend on you, you are no longer a man of your own.

New gods vanquish the altars of the old, so that they can reign in their full brilliance… This God of yours claims to be the protector of all sufferers yet brings demise to the cultures where He sets foot. He conquers just like all invaders do. Ideological invasion is often far more destructive than actual, physical one.

Oh, how wondrous our lives are! How everything can change but in a single instant… It is truly a miracle of God. We believe we can control our lives as we want, but in truth, we never know what’s coming up. Hence, all we can do, in the end, is enjoy the moments given, pray, and hope for the better. We must always remember that everything will change, and every moment will pass, so it should be embraced whilst it is still within our grasp.

Violence needs a cause and a purpose. Attacking an unarmed fellow? – You’re a coward. Sacrificing the blood of the innocent to gods? – You’re a beast. Saying those sacrifices are different from us? – My foot, we are all human. However, when my family, my country, my people are threatened, it is no longer only about me. When that happens and one does not take arms and pierce the heart of their enemy, again, they are a coward.

Most people have some idea that they’re leaving traces of themselves whenever they go online, but very few realize how much. Even fewer people know how much all these digital footprints can tell others about their lives.

On-demand companies like Handy provide customers with a guarantee that workers are competent and honest; Oisin Hanrahan, the company’s founder, says that more than 400,000 people have applied to join the platform, but only 3% of applicants get through

Here is a nature-picture (attributed to Oisin) as vivid as ancient: “A tale for you: oxen lowing: winter snowing: summer passed away: wind from the north, high and cold: low the sun and short his course: wildly tossing the wave of the sea. The fern burns deep red. Men wrap themselves closely: the wild goose raises her wonted cry: cold seizes the wing of the bird: ‘tis the season of ice: sad my tale.

Maeve’s always at the doctor’s, constantly signed off sick from work, on tons of different medication. She binge eats, she’s got really big and she’s never had a stable relationship. And Oisin drinks far too much. He’s had kids with two different girls already, and he’s only twenty-three. He works really menial jobs, just to get drinking money.

Now we needed the House. According to our lobbyists, we needed a sponsor who sat on the Committee on Ways and Means. And according to the lobbyists, everyone liked our idea but no one wanted to make it their big ask in tax reform. (GOP members of Ways and Means exist to cut taxes so using their chits on anyone else’s issue wasn’t something they’d take lightly.) Finally, after months of meetings, Congressman Tom Rice from South Carolina signed on as our House sponsor. Two good sponsors isn’t enough to pass anything. So we added another front to the war. Matt Yale knew Matt Rhoades, who had served as Romney’s campaign manager in 2012. Matt Rhoades created a PR firm called Definers that specialized in conservative media. While no Republican was likely to take their marching orders from the 32BJs of the world and oppose our idea, they needed positive reinforcement just like everyone else. Even once we got our House sponsor, at a certain point, the bill and all of its amendments was going to end up being debated behind closed doors during reconciliation (the process where the House and Senate try to agree on everything so they can actually pass a law). If our idea didn’t have more than one champion in Thune, even if no one disagreed with us, we wouldn’t necessarily survive the process. Luckily, Oisin and Brian quickly saw the value and agreed to let us hire them.

Aren't you kind,' Kanbaru said, [...] 'You must get told that often. That you're a good, kind person.' 'Who wants to get told, and often, the kind of thing you tell someone who doesn't have a personality?

In the days when the fairies still populated Erin and the minstrels sang the ballads of Oisin, the kings of Ireland and their nobles bred the greatest of all dogs for the hunting of the gray wolf and the gigantic Irish elk—a sport for men of heart and brawn. Kin to the greyhound and as fleet, owning the blood of the wire-haired terrier of the north and as gamy as he, this dog was bred the largest and bravest of his kind—the sagh clium, or wolf-dog.

When All Is Done”—Paul Laurence Dunbar “The Wanderings of Oisin”—William Butler Yeats “The Cloud-Islands”—Clark Ashton Smith “love is more thicker than forget”—E. E. Cummings “Hymn to the North Star”—William Cullen Bryant “Give Me the Splendid Silent Sun”—Walt Whitman “The Young Man’s Song”—William Butler Yeats “If”—Rudyard Kipling “Character of the Happy Warrior”—William Wordsworth

POEMS “Song of the Open Road”—Walt Whitman “The Tyger”—William Blake “I Thought of You”—Sara Teasdale “Sonnet 140”—William Shakespeare “A Clear Midnight”—Walt Whitman “Something Left Undone”—Henry Wadsworth Longfellow “A Prayer for My Daughter”—William Butler Yeats “My Little March Girl”—Paul Laurence Dunbar “The Mountain Sat Upon the Plain”—Emily Dickinson “The Song of Wandering Aengus”—William Butler Yeats “Jabberwocky”—Lewis Carroll “Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening”—Robert Frost “Continent’s End”—Robinson Jeffers “Forgiveness”—George MacDonald “O Me! O Life!”—Walt Whitman “To the Virgins, to Make Much of Time”—Robert Herrick “In Memoriam A.H.H.”—Alfred Lord Tennyson “i like my body when it is with your”—E. E. Cummings “A Psalm of Life”—Henry Wadsworth Longfellow “The Lake Isle of Innisfree”—William Butler Yeats “Three Marching Songs”—William Butler Yeats “Song of Myself”—Walt Whitman “in the rain”—E. E. Cummings “When All Is Done”—Paul Laurence Dunbar “The Wanderings of Oisin”—William Butler Yeats “The Cloud-Islands”—Clark Ashton Smith “love is more thicker than forget”—E. E. Cummings “Hymn to the North Star”—William Cullen Bryant “Give Me the Splendid Silent Sun”—Walt Whitman “The Young Man’s Song”—William Butler Yeats “If”—Rudyard Kipling “Character of the Happy Warrior”—William Wordsworth

the Fian na h-Eireann were gone forever. Yet, though dead, they live. The lays of Oisin, the Dialogue of the Ancients, and innumerable other Finian poems and tales have kept, and will keep, their name and their fame imperishable.[23] Not only is the Fian in general immortalised, but the names, the qualities, and the characteristics of every one of Fionn’s trusted lieutenants — Oscar who never wronged bard or woman, Gol the mighty, Caoilte the sweet-tongued, Diarmuid Donn the beautiful, the bitter-tongued Conan, and the rest of them, have lived and will live. Even their hounds are with us, immortal. Bran, Sgeolan, and their famed fellows still follow the stag over the wooded hills of Eirinn, and wake the echoes of our mountain glens, by their bay melodious.

In every corner of Ireland to the remotest headland, the stories of the Fian awake the admiration, and excite the emulation of our people. Round every hearth, in every cottage, on every hillside in Eirinn, the Fian is the enchanted word with which the seanachie awakes the instant interest and for as long as he likes holds the spellbound attention of man and child, of learned and simple, rich and poor, old and young. The best of the stories of the Fian are preserved to us in the poems of Oisin, the son of Fionn, the chief bard of the Fian, in the Agallamh na Seanorach, and many other fine poems of olden time. The Agallam na Seanorach (the Colloquy of the Ancients), by far the finest collection of Fenian tales, is supposed to be an account of the Fian’s great doings, given in to Patrick by Gisin and Caoilte — more than 150 years after. After the overthrow of the Fian, Caoilte is supposed to have lived with the Tuatha De Danann, under the hills — until the coming of St. Patrick.

Oisin had been carried away to the Land of Youth, under the western ocean. Both of them return to their mortal existence, and to Ireland, when Patrick is in the land, winning it from Crom Cruach to Christ. Patrick meets and converts each of them. They attach themselves to his company, and travel Ireland with him. When the Saint is wearied from much travelling and work, or, as often happens, from the perversity of the people he has to deal with, Oisin or Caoilte refresh and beguile him with many a sweet tale of the Fian — all of which, says the tradition, the pleased Patrick had his scribe Breogan write down and preserve for posterity. These tales make the Agallam na Seanorach. The

desire for Oisin’s delightful tales of these brave Pagans would overcome in Patrick the zest for theological controversy — “Oisin, sweet to me is thy voice, And a blessing, furthermore, on the soul of Fionn! Relate to us how many deer Were slain at Sliabh-nam-Ban-Fionn.” And, Oisin, mollified, forgiving and forgetting Patrick’s strictures on his Fian fellows, would forthwith launch into another of his rare tales.

You showed the Eye to someone who wanted to see it?” My brother is a big walking headache. “Who?” “A girl?” “A girl?” I spit the words out. If Oisin lost the Eye trying to impress some girl he likes, I'm going to kill him. And Mamo and Dad will bring him back to life so they can kill him again. There must be some dark, ancient ritual for that.

But it was Ireland’s mercurial folklore that supplied Bax with the dominant voice in his compositions. Beginning with Cathaleen-na-Hoolihan (1905), written three years after encountering Yeats, the list of his tone poems (spanning the years 1909–31) reads like the contents of an Arts and Crafts compendium of decadent fairy tales: In the Faery Hills, Rosc-catha, Spring Fire, Nympholept, The Garden of Fand, November Woods, Tintagel, The Happy Forest, The Tale the Pine Trees Knew. A sensualist and erotic adventurer (in 1910 he pursued a ukrainian girl he was infatuated with from St Petersburg to Kiev), Bax created lush, richly foliated sound-forests that attempted to conjure up a sense of narcotic abandon and the intoxicating conjunction of myth and landscape. In the Faery Hills (1909) takes its cue from a section in Yeats’s Wanderings of Oisin in which the Sídhe force a troubadour to sing them a song. Aware of their reputation as festive types, Oisin launches into his most joyous ditty. To the Sídhe, it still sounds like the most depressing dirge they’ve ever heard, so they toss his harp into a pool and whisk him away to show him how to party like it’s AD 99. Bax claimed to have been ‘possessed by Kerry’s self’5 while writing it.