#Irish #Women #XIXCentury #XXCentury
They say it is the wind in midnigh… Loud shrieking past the window, th… Each casement shudder with its sto… And the barred door with pushing s… Ah, no! ah, no! It is the souls p…
She made roses all the day for pre… All through the patient hours, hal… Dragged into a hurried knot all he… Eyes foolish with fatigue, straini… Pretty ladies roamed away over lan…
I drew her out of the wave High up on the windy shore. Oh, never a fish I caught So fair in my net before. And white she was as the foam
All on a golden morning the beggar… To gather branch and berry, the ha… And as she went a-singing, a gipsy… Beneath a bower of branches—a grey… ‘Your fortune, pretty lady, I pra…
Who is he, dying so hard? Hard is it to die’ Die in the warmth of June, Bird and bee in tune’ Die in the singing time,
Into my heart, Sorrow, you found… Mine enemy, it was bitter to weep… I gave you tears for drinking, And heart-sick sobs, With brain too sick for thinking,
I would I had a thousand tongues To sing thy praise, to sing thy pr… I’d teach the birds on ev’ry tree To chorus the sweet melody, For all my days, for all my days.
Roses red for the fair young head… Let them be half blown, For a rose in June it will fade t… For thee my own The fairest blossoms in all love’s…
I crave of you pardon to-day, Yesterday I was mad when I spoke; But the dream of our friendship wa… And my heart seemed to die when I… I forgot when the fair image grew
A little dog disturbed my trust in… I praised most faithfully All the great things that be, Man’s pain and pleasure even; I said though hard this weighing
If I should rise amidst the assem… Calling for thee, whose fond hands… Me in young years, in that far unk… To help me there, and could not fi… If thou wouldst find that mother w…
All day and every day, Upon a hawthorn spray, Early and late, A redbreast robin sings, And flirts his nut-brown wings,
I come from a burial; Hush! let me be I have put away my love, Fair exceedingly. Ah! the little gold curls
Oh! do not rudely wake her, nor re… Those pulsing limbs for this hosti… To timid life, that cast in death-… What he had moulded for his ecstas… Nay! rather pity one so keen to le…
How restless are the dead whose si… In to our lone retreat or solitary… Within the dew-wet wood or sun-enc… We meet them face to face, we hear… How powerful are the dead whose vo…