#IrishWriters
I took a reed and blew a tune, And sweet it was and very clear To be about a little thing That only few hold dear. Three times the cuckoo named himse…
THE silence of maternal hills Is round me in my evening dreams; And round me music-making rills And mingling waves of pastoral str… Whatever way I turn I find
When I leave down this pipe my fr… And sleep with flowers I loved, a… My songs shall rise in wilding thi… Whose roots are in my heart. And here where that sweet poet sle…
Broom out the floor now, lay the f… And plant this bee-sucked bough of… And let the window down. The butt… Floats in upon the sunbeam, and th… Tanned face of June, the nomad gi…
Green ripples singing down the cor… With blossoms dumb the path I tre… And in the music of the morn One with wild roses on her head. Now the green ripples turn to gold
Lady fair, have we not met In our lives elsewhere? Darkling in my mind to-night Faint fair faces dare Memory’s old unfaithfulness
Quiet miles of golden sky, And in my heart a sudden flower. I want to clap my hands and cry For Beauty in her secret bower. Quiet golden miles of dawn—
He will not come, and still I wai… He whistles at another gate Where angels listen. Ah I know He will not come, yet if I go How shall I know he did not pass
When you come in, it seems a brigh… Crackles upon the hearth invitingl… The household routine which was wo… Grows full of novelty. You sit upon our home-upholstered…
AS I was climbing Ardan Mór From the shore of Sheelin lake, I met the herons coming down Before the water’s wake. And they were talking in their fli…
Una Bawn, the days are long, And the seas I cross are wide, I must go when Ireland needs, And you must bide. And should I not return to you
Had I a golden pound to spend, My love should mend and sew no mor… And I would buy her a little quer… Easy to turn on the kitchen floor. And for her windows curtains white…
Hunger points a bony finger To the workhouse on the hill, But the little children linger While there’s flowers to gather st… For my sunny window sill.
Now leafy winds are blowing cold, And South by West the sun goes do… A quiet huddles up the fold In sheltered corners of the brown. Like scattered fire the wild fruit…
When the clouds shake their hyssop… Like holy water falls upon the pla… ’Tis sweet to gaze upon the spring… And see your harvest born. And sweet the little breeze of mel…