#IrishWriters
What of the silence of the keys And silvery hands? The iron sings… Though bows lie broken on the stri… The fly-wheels turn eternally’¦ Bring fuel - drive the fires high’…
Your love was like moonlight turning harsh things to beauty, so that little wry souls reflecting each other obliquely as in cracked mirrors’¦ beheld in your luminous spirit their own r...
Wind, just arisen - (Off what cool mattress of marsh-m… In tented boughs leaf-drawn before… Or niche of cliff under the eagles… You of living things,
Small towns Crawling out of their green shirts… Tubercular towns Coughing a little in the dawn... And the church...
Skyscrapers’¦ remote, unpartisan’… Turning neither to the right nor l… Your imperturbable fronts’¦. Austerely greeting the sun With one chilly finger of stone’¦…
Drab discoloration Of faces, façades, pawn-shops, Second-hand clothing, Smoky and fly-blown glass of lunch… Odors of rancid life’¦
Undulant rustlings, Of oncoming silk, Rhythmic, incessant, Like the motion of leaves… Fragments of color
They pass through the great iron g… Men with eyes gravely discerning, Skilled to appraise the tunnage of… Or split an inch into thousandths… Men tempered by fire as the ore is
Cool, inaccessible air Is floating in velvety blackness s… But no breath stirs the heat Leaning its ponderous bulk upon th… And most on Hester street…
He walked under the shadow of the… Where men are fed into the fires And walled apart… Unarmed and alone, He summoned his mates from the pit…
(Easter 1916) Censored lies that mimic truth’¦ Censored truth as pale as fear’¦ My heart is like a rousing bell - And but the dead to hear’¦
Blow through me wind As you blow through apple blossoms… Scatter me in shining petals over… Joyously I reunite’¦ sway and ga… Sedately I walk by the dancing fe…
Your love was like moonlight turning harsh things to beauty, so that little wry souls reflecting each other obliquely as in cracked mirrors . . .
Old plant of Asia - Mutilated vine Holding earth’s leaping sap In every stem and shoot That lopped off, sprouts again -
I am of the wind... A wisp of the battering wind... I trail my fingers along the Alps And an avalanche falls in my wake.… I feel in my quivering length