#IrishWriters
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
I hear an army charging upon the l… And the thunder of horses plunging… Arrogant, in black armour, behind… Disdaining the reins, with flutter… They cry unto the night their batt…
In the dark pine—wood I would we lay, In deep cool shadow At noon of day. How sweet to lie there,
Of the dark past A child is born; With joy and grief My heart is torn. Calm in his cradle
Frail the white rose and frail are Her hands that gave Whose soul is sere and paler Than time’s wan wave. Rosefrail and fair—yet frailest
The summer evening had begun to fold the world in its mysterious embrace. Far away in the west the sun was setting and the last glow of all too fleeting day lingered lovingly on sea and...
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...
The noon’s greygolden meshes make All night a veil, The shorelamps in the sleeping lak… Laburnum tendrils trail. The sly reeds whisper to the night
Rain on Rahoon falls softly, soft… Where my dark lover lies. Sad is his voice that calls me, sa… At grey moonrise. Love, hear thou
Again! Come, give, yield all your stre… From far a low word breathes on th… Its cruel calm, submission’s miser… Gentling her awe as to a soul pred…
At that hour when all things have… O lonely watcher of the skies, Do you hear the night wind and the… Of harps playing unto Love to unc… The pale gates of sunrise?
Love came to us in time gone by When one at twilight shyly played And one in fear was standing nigh… For Love at first is all afraid. We were grave lovers. Love is pas…
Of that so sweet imprisonment My soul, dearest, is fain —— Soft arms that woo me to relent And woo me to detain. Ah, could they ever hold me there
The Mabbot Street entrance of nighttown, before which stretches an uncobbled tramsiding set with skeleton tracks, red and green will-o’-the-wisps and danger signals. rows of grimy house...
Mr Leopold Bloom ate with relish the inner organs of beasts and fowls. He liked thick giblet soup, nutty gizzards, a stuffed roast heart, liverslices fried with crustcrumbs, fried henco...