#IrishWriters
The twilight turns from amethyst To deep and deeper blue, The lamp fills with a pale green g… The trees of the avenue. The old piano plays an air,
Ineluctable modality of the visible: at least that if no more, thought through my eyes. Signatures of all things I am here to read, seaspawn and seawrack, the nearing tide, that rusty b...
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!
He Who Hath Glory Lost He who hath glory lost, nor hath Found any soul to fellow his, Among his foes in scorn and wrath Holding to ancient nobleness,
Lean out of the window, Goldenhair, I hear you singing A merry air. My book was closed,
Gentle lady, do not sing Sad songs about the end of love; Lay aside sadness and sing How love that passes is enough. Sing about the long deep sleep
In the dark pine—wood I would we lay, In deep cool shadow At noon of day. How sweet to lie there,
Deshil Holles Eamus. Deshil Holles Eamus. Deshil Holles Eamus. Send us bright one, light one, Horhorn, quickening and wombfruit. Send us bright one, light one, Horhorn, quickening and w...
This heart that flutters near my h… My hope and all my riches is, Unhappy when we draw apart And happy between kiss and kiss: My hope and all my riches ——yes! —…
Fabled by the daughters of memory. And yet it was in some way if not as memory fabled it. A phrase, then, of impatience, thud of Blake’s wings of excess. I hear the ruin of all space, s...
Who goes amid the green wood With springtide all adorning her? Who goes amid the merry green wood To make it merrier? Who passes in the sunlight
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...
My dove, my beautiful one, Arise, arise! The night-dew lies Upon my lips and eyes. The odorous winds are weaving
Wind whines and whines the shingle… The crazy pierstakes groan; A senile sea numbers each single Slimesilvered stone. From whining wind and colder
From dewy dreams, my soul, arise, From love’s deep slumber and from… For lo! the treees are full of sig… Whose leaves the morn admonisheth. Eastward the gradual dawn prevails