Dearest sister, sell all things that are yours, and come to me.

You'll not forget Ireland here.

Whoever has breathed her air can never forget the hills and dells, the valleys and bogs, the mountains, with their mists of rain, the wild girls, with their bare ankles, their red petticoats, and their beautiful, reckless air.
None who has ever breathed the air of Ireland can breathe in another land without memory of the ancient harp of Ireland.

But it is as a memory-deep, wonderful, and abiding, yet a memory.

I sometimes think I have forgotten, and then I hear coming through this Virginia the notes of some old Irish melody, the song of some wayfarer of Mayo or Connemara, and I know then that Ireland is persuasive and perpetual; but only as a memory, because it speaks in every pulse and beats in every nerve.
Oh, believe me, I speak of what I know! I have been away from Ireland for a long time, and I'm never going back, but I'll bring Ireland to me.