#IrishWriters
Of the dark past A child is born; With joy and grief My heart is torn. Calm in his cradle
I would in that sweet bosom be (O sweet it is and fair it is!) Where no rude wind might visit me. Because of sad austerities I would in that sweet bosom be.
Strings in the earth and air Make music sweet; Strings by the river where The willows meet. There’s music along the river
Lean out of the window, Goldenhair, I hear you singing A merry air. My book was closed,
The superior, the very reverend John Conmee S.J. reset his smooth watch in his interior pocket as he came down the presbytery steps. Five to three. Just nice time to walk to Artane. Wha...
Bronze by gold heard the hoofirons, steelyringing Imperthnthn thnthnthn. A jumping rose on satiny breast of satin, rose of Castile. And a call, pure, long and throbbing. Longindying cal...
He travels after a winter sun, Urging the cattle along a cold red… Calling to them, a voice they know… He drives his beasts above Cabra. The voice tells them home is warm.
YES because he never did a thing like that before as ask to get his breakfast in bed with a couple of eggs since the City Arms hotel when he used to be pretending to be laid up with a s...
Bid adieu, adieu, adieu, Bid adieu to girlish days, Happy Love is come to woo Thee and woo thy girlish ways— The zone that doth become thee fai…
My love is in a light attire Among the apple trees, Where the gay winds do most desire To run in companies. There, where the gay winds stay to…
Be not sad because all men Prefer a lying clamour before you: Sweetheart, be at peace again— Can they dishonour you? They are sadder than all tears;
My love is in a light attire Among the apple—trees, Where the gay winds do most desire To run in companies. There, where the gay winds stay to…
Now, O now, in this brown land Where Love did so sweet music mak… We two shall wander, hand in hand, Forbearing for old friendship’ sak… Nor grieve because our love was ga…
The eyes that mock me sign the way Whereto I pass at eve of day. Grey way whose violet signals are The trysting and the twining star. Ah star of evil! star of pain!
By Lorries along sir John Rogerson’s quay Mr Bloom walked soberly, past Windmill lane, Leask’s the linseed crusher, the postal telegraph office. Could have given that address too. And p...