#IrishWriters
I love those spirits That men stand off and point at, Or shudder and hood up their souls… Those ruined ones, Where Liberty has lodged an hour
Aren’t there bigger things to talk… Than a window in Greenwich Villag… And hyacinths sprouting Like little puce poems out of a si… Some cosmic hearsay—
I love you, malcontent Male wind - Shaking the pollen from a flower Or hurling the sea backward from t… Blow on and over my dreams…
The earth is motionless And poised in space’¦ A great bird resting in its flight Between the alleys of the stars. It is the wind’s hour off’¦.
Not your martyrs anointed of heave… The ages are red where they trod - But the Hunted - the world’s bitt… Who smote at your imbecile God - A being to pander and fawn to,
Your love was like moonlight turning harsh things to beauty, so that little wry souls reflecting each other obliquely as in cracked mirrors . . .
There is music in the strong Deep-throated bush, Whisperings of song Heard in the leaves’ hush - Ballads of the trees
Small towns Crawling out of their green shirts… Tubercular towns Coughing a little in the dawn... And the church...
Spires of Grace Church, For you the workers of the world Travailed with the mountains’¦ Aborting their own dreams Till the dream of you arose -
Undulant rustlings, Of oncoming silk, Rhythmic, incessant, Like the motion of leaves… Fragments of color
Light! Innumerable ions of light, Kindling, irradiating, All to their foci tending… Light that jingles like anklet cha…
I THOUGHT to die that night in… But there was time ... And I lay quietly on the drawn kn… I do not know how long ... I could not count the hours, they…
Skyscrapers’¦ remote, unpartisan’… Turning neither to the right nor l… Your imperturbable fronts’¦. Austerely greeting the sun With one chilly finger of stone’¦…
We are old, Old as song. Before Rome was Or Cyrene. Mad nights knew us
Oh, God did cunningly, there at B… Not mere tongues dividing, but sou… So that never again should men be… To fashion one infinite, towering…