#IrishWriters
Kiss the maid and pass her round, Lips like hers were made for many. Our loves are far from us to-night… But these red lips are sweet as an… Let no empty glass be seen
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—
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…
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,
The rushes nod by the river As the winds on the loud waves go, And the things they nod of are man… For it’s many the secret they know… And I think they are wise as the…
Because you have no fear to mingle Wings with those of greater part, So like me, with song I single Your sweet impudence of heart. And when prouder feathers go where
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…
A blackbird singing On a moss-upholstered stone, Bluebells swinging, Shadows wildly blown, A song in the wood,
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
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…
She paved the way with perfume swe… Of flowers that moved like winds a… And never weary grew my feet Wandering through[the spring’s del… She dropped her sweet fife to her…
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
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.
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…
Maiden-poet, come with me To the heaped up cairn of Maeve, And there we’ll dance a fairy danc… Upon a fairy’s grave. In and out among the trees,
