#IrishWriters
WHAT shall we mourn? For the pro… For the fallen cliff that fronted… For the eagle that died in the tem… Nay, not for these shall we weep;… And the golden fillet shrink back…
GOD’S order, ‘Light!’ when all w… Brought mornless noon, a flame wit… A gift unearned, that none may hol… An outer glory, not an inner guide… But flamed no star in heaven to li…
IT is sweet to rejoice for a day,… For a day that is reached at last! It is well for wanderers in new la… Slow climbers toward a lofty mount… Yearning with hearts and eyes stra…
A LEGEND OF THE BUSH. MY tale which I have brought is o… Ere that fair Southern land was s… Brought thitherward in reeking shi… Like blight upon the coast, or lik…
THERE once was a time when, as o… The earth was not round, but an en… The sea was as wide as the heavens… Just millions of miles, and begin… And that was the time’ay, and mo…
MY friend he was; my friend from… With childlike faith he oped to me… No door was locked on altar, grave… No weakness veiled, concealed no d… The hope, the sorrow and the wrong…
THERE is a shadow on the sunny w… Dark and forbidding, like a bode o… Go, drive it thence. Alas, such s… From real things, nor may be moved… There is a shadow on my heart to-d…
‘HOW shall I a habit break?’ As you did that habit make. As you gathered, you must lose; As you yielded, now refuse. Thread by thread the strands we tw…
I told her a story, a fairy story, My little daughter with eyes of bl… And with clear, wide gaze as the s… She always asked me—'Oh, is it tr… Always that word when the wonder r…
DEAD, with his harness on him: Rigid and cold and white, Marking the place of the vanguard Still in the ancient fight. The climber dead on the hill-side,
IN the Spring we see: Then the buds are dear to us’imm… In the Summer we live: When bright eyes are near to us, o… In the Autumn we love:
I CARE not for the outer voice That deals out praise or blame; I could not with the world rejoice Nor bear its doom of shame— But when the Voice within me spea…
NOT on the word alone Let love depend; Neither by actions done Choose ye the friend. Let the slow years fly—
‘SHE is dead!’ they say; 'she is… Her mother has kissed her clay-col… Her blue eyes show through the wax… Her grave is dug, and its heap of… ‘She is dead!’ they say to the peo…
IN the old days, while yet the Ch… And men believed that praise of G… In curbing self as well as singing… There lived a monk, Macarius by n… A holy man, to whom the faithful c…
