#Irish
Jesus His Mother meets: She looks on Him and sees The Savior in Her Son: The Angel’s word comes back: Within her heart she says,
I. THE TREES THERE is no glory of the sunset… Heavy the clouds upon the darkenin… And heavy, too, the wind upon the… The trees sway, making moan
Of the Irish, Paris THE Lombards having gone back to… We, who might never flock to nativ… Except like birds that fly like fu… Desperately, in a wind across the…
ON the third day from this (Saint… I will be where no wind that fille… Has ever been, and it blew high or… For from this home-creek, from thi… I shall put forth: make ready, you…
FOR the poor body that I own I could weep many a tear: The days have stolen flesh and bon… And left a changeling here. Four feeble bones are left to me,
THE Plovers fly and cry around, Unguided, nestless, without bourn, Wandering and impetuous, Turning and flying to return. These wild birds seen on Ireland’…
NOT as a woman of the English we… English Do I weep— A cry that scarcely stirs the hear… I lament as it is in my blood to l…
I AM sitting here Since the moon rose in the night, Kindling a fire, And striving to keep it alight; The folk of the house are lying
WE wander now who marched before, Hawking our bran from door to door… While other men from the mill take… So it is to be an Old Soldier. Old, bare and sore, we look on the…
BUT, Snake, you must not come wh… For you would tempt us; we should… ‘Oh, somewhere was a world was col… And voiceless; somewhere was a Be… Engrossed with substance, with no…
In The Farmer’s House I’M glad to lie on a sack of leav… By a wasted fire and take my ease. For the wind would strip me bare a… The wind would blow oul’ age upon…
MY eyelids red and heavy arc With bending o’er the smold’ring p… I know the Aeneid now by heart, My Virgil read in cold and heat, In loneliness and hunger smart.
I HEARD in the night the pigeon… Stirring within their nest: The wild pigeons’ stir was tender, Like a child’s hand at the breast. I cried 'O stir no more!
OVER old walls the Laburnums hang cones of fire; Laburnums that grow out of old mould in old gardens: Old maids and old men who have sav…
WHY do I look for fire to brand… What do I need, when all within i… And lo, she comes, carrying the li… And branding tool—she who is my de… What need have I for what is in h…