#IrishWriters
That day, in the slipping of torso… on the bloodied ooze of fields plo… And the smoke bluish near earth an… floating like cotton-down, And the harsh and terrible screami…
You can see the sandhills from our… Butterflies live in the sandhills and lizards and centipedes.
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
Pythoness body’arching Over the night like an ecstasy’ I feel your coils tightening’¦ And the world’s lessening breath…
We are old, Old as song. Before Rome was Or Cyrene. Mad nights knew us
I wonder how it would be here with you, where the wind that has shaken off its dust in lo… touches one cleanly,
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…
The soldiers lie upon the snow, That no longer gyrates under the s… Night juggles in her fat black han… They will not babble any more secr… nights
I have known only my own shallows… Safe, plumbed places, Where I was wont to preen myself. But for the abyss I wanted a plank beneath
Small towns Crawling out of their green shirts… Tubercular towns Coughing a little in the dawn... And the church...
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…
Is it you I see go by the window,… at me nor any one, And your shadow swaying from East… Strange that you should be walking… And your legs tied up with a knot…
Last night I watched a star fall like a great… Till my ego expanding encompassed… Containing both as in a trembling…
When Art goes bounding, lean, Up hill-tops fired green To pluck a rose for life. Life like a broody hen Cluck-clucks him back again.
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 -