#IrishWriters
THE little moths are creeping Across the cottage pane; On the floor the chickens gather, And they make talk and complain. And she sits by the fire
O woman, shapely as the swan, On your account I shall not die: The men you’ve slain—a trivial cla… Were less than I. I ask me shall I die for these—
How strangely like a churchyard sk… The thing that’s there amongst the… A Hornets’ nest; but stir the bra… And they’ll be round your head and… So wary ana so weaponed,
HE knows Queen Lab, her isle, And black, enormous Kaf, The Swallow, and 'Allah’ He cries As into Giaour lands
I THINK some saint of Eirinn wa… Found you and brought you here De… For so I greet you in this alien… And like those maidens who were on… In their own land as daughters of…
IT’S my fear that my wake won’t b… Nor my wake house a silent place: For who would keep back the hundre… Who would touch my breast and my f… For the good men were always my fr…
‘THE blackbird’s in the briar, The seagull’s on the ground– They are nests, and they’re more t… ‘They are tokens I have found. There, where the rain-dashed briar
THE Plovers fly and cry around, Unguided, nestless, without bourn, Wandering and impetuous, Turning and flying to return. These wild birds seen on Ireland’…
You would not slumber If laid at my breast: You would not slumber. The river-flood beats The swan from her nest:
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…
ABOVE me stand, worn from their… The King’s, the Bishop’s, and the… Quiet as folds upon a grassy knoll… Stark-grey they stand, wall joined… Chapel, and Castle, and Cathedral…
As I went down through Dublin cit… At the hour of twelve of the night… Who did I see but a Spanish lady Washing her feet by candle light. First she washed them,
FROM THE IRISH I’d bring you these for dowry A field from heather free, White sheep upon the mountain, And calves that follow me.
STRIDE the hill, Sower, Up to the sky ridge, Flinging the seed, Scattering, exultant! Mouthing great rhythms
To Meath of the pastures, From wet hills by the sea, Through Leitrim and Longford Go my cattle and me. I hear in the darkness