#IrishWriters
I saw you and I named a flower That lights with blue a woodland s… I named a bird of the red hour And a hidden fairy place. And then I saw you not, and knew
Every night at Currabwee Little men with leather hats Mend the boots of Faery From the tough wings of the bats. So my mother told to me,
He shall not hear the bittern cry In the wild sky, where he is lain, Nor voices of the sweeter birds, Above the wailing of the rain. Nor shall he know when loud March…
Before you leave my hands’ abuses To lie where many odd things meet… Neglected darkling of the Muses, I, the last of singers, greet you. Snug in some white wing they found…
Come, May, and hang a white flag… Make truce with earth and heaven;… Now hides her sulky face deep in t… Of your new flowers by the water w… And in the ripples of the rising g…
My mind is not my mind, therefore I take no heed of what men say, I lived ten thousand years before God cursed the town of Nineveh. The Present is a dream I see
Old lame Bridget doesn’t hear Fairy music in the grass When the gloaming’s on the mere And the shadow people pass: Never hears their slow grey feet
All the dead kings came to me At Rosnaree, where I was dreaming… A few stars glimmered through the… And down the thorn the dews were s… And every dead king had a story
I called you by sweet names by woo… You answered not because my voice… And you were listening for the hou… And the long hosts of Lugh. And so, I came unto a windy heigh…
I heard the Poor Old Woman say: “At break of day the fowler came, And took my blackbirds from their… Who loved me well thro’ shame and… No more from lovely distances
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…
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…
Who would hear the fairy horn Calling all the hounds of Finn Must be in a lark’s nest born When the moon is very thin. I who have the gift can hear
God made my mother on an April da… From sorrow and the mist along the… Lost birds’ and wanderers’ songs a… And the moon loved her wandering j… Beside the ocean’s din she combed…
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…