#IrishWriters
The moon comes every night to peep Through the window where I lie, And I pretend to be asleep; But I watch the moon as it goes b… And it never makes a sound.
The lanky hank of a she in the inn… Nearly killed me for asking the lo… May the devil grip the whey-faced… And beat bad manners out of her sk… That parboiled imp, with the harde…
I heard a bird at dawn Singing sweetly on a tree, That the dew was on the lawn, And the wind was on the lea; But I didn’t listen to him,
A little girl and a big ugly man Went down the road. The girl was… And asking to go home, but when sh… He hit her on the head and sent he… And called her a young imp, and sa…
Come with me, under my coat, And we will drink our fill Of the milk of the white goat, Or wine, if it be thy will; And we will talk until
Do not forget my charge I beg of… That of what flow’rs you find of f… And sweetest odor you do gather th… Are best of all the best—a fragran… A tall calm lily from the watersid…
And then I wakened up in such a f… I thought I heard a movement in t… But did not dare to look; I snugg… Down underneath the bedclothes—the… Of a tremendous voice said, ‘Sit…
The crooked paths go every way Upon the hill - they wind about Through the heather in and out Of the quiet sunniness. And there the goats, day after day…
Cow, Cow! I and thou Are looking at each other’s eyes You are lying on the grass Eating every time I pass,
The sun is always in the sky Whenever I get out of bed, And I often wonder why It’s never late.—My sister said She did not know who did the trick…
I am the maker, The builder, the breaker, The eagle-winged helper, The speedy forsaker! The lance and the lyre,
The leaves are fresh after the rai… The air is cool and clear, The sun is shining warm again, The sparrows hopping in the lane Are brisk and full of cheer.
To-day i felt as poor O’Brien did When, turning from all else that w… He took himself to that which was… —He took him to his verse—for othe… And (tho’ man will crave and seek)
I hear a sudden cry of pain! There is a rabbit in a snare: Now I hear the cry again, But I cannot tell from where. But I cannot tell from where
In the winter time we go Walking in the fields of snow; Where there is no grass at all; Where the top of every wall, Every fence, and every tree,
