#IrishWriters
Who was stealing the Baron’s wine… Golden sherry and port so old, Precious, I wot, as drops of gold… Lone to-night he came to dine, Flung himself in his oaken chair,
I could have sung as sweet as any… Who in unfettered skies doth find… And sings to leaning angels prayer… For in God’s garden the most lowl… |But came the cares—a grey and sti…
Lighted by the lady moon, Breezes blow and aspens quiver, By the stream’s enchanted tune Singing to the distant river, Walks Cecilia.
Is it some shade from Paradise, Shut down beneath the clouding ski… This wandering voice that ever cri… In its pathetic sweetness? Some loving soul that, leaning far
Before her mirror in a pouting moo… Afraid to weep lest anger should r… The picture there, she did impatie… Why Fate should treat her worse t… Her lilac frock her mother’s hand…
I found a dark enchanted lake, That lay within a lonely glade; I stood a moment, held entranced, Hid 'neath the willow’s purple sha… The moon cast down her silver nets…
All night the small feet of the ra… Within the garden ran, And gentle fingers tapped the pane Until the dawn began. The rill-like voices called and su…
Even the silent lips and comfortin… I had no more; I took my place Still wondering, behind the slow s… All of your beauty Death could ro… One amongst many men who followed…
Behold! a new white world! The falling snow Has cloaked the last old year And bid him go. To-morrow! cries the oak
Droop all the flowers in my garden… All their fair heads hang low; For rose, their fairest companion, Never again will they know. Bring me no flowers for wearing,
Out from her doorway peeped the li… To gaze upon the world most full o… Her eager eyes all bright and unaf… Her smooth cheek flushed with joy… Nor did she stay because long shad…
’Twas on a gloomy afternoon When all the world was out of tune… And lover’s lot amiss, When Chloe, waiting by the stream… Awoke from love’s too pleasant dre…
I would have wept with the beast, The bird, the blossoming flower, The hundred years of the oak, Or the insect born for an hour, Saying with my soul’s right
O the chatter, chatter, chatter, Of the things that do not matter. Little wordy things that clatter, Restless feet that pitter patter, All my pretty houses scatter,
It dawned a morn to make a heart d… East was the wind and chill the A… No beast was out save one poor sta… Who for his supper nosed the muddy… Beside the river, where its sluggi…