#Irish
ARCH-SCHOLAR they’ll call you… Kuno Mayer, Who know the word Behind the word The men of learning . . .
GREEN wings and yellow breasts o… That turn their heads and stare, And a red streamer tail! They come from Yucatan Where priests with clownish hats,…
My young love said to me: My moth… And my father won’t slight you for… She put her arms ‘round me; these… It will not be long, love, ’til ou… Then she stepped away from me, and…
CAN it be that never more Men will grow on Islands? Ithaka and Eriskey, Iceland and Tahiti! Must the engines he has forged
‘Lost,’ ‘lost,’ the beeves and the… The cattle men sell and buy, Crowded upon the fair green, Low to the lightless sky. ‘Live,’ ‘live,’ and ‘Here,’ ‘here…
I AM the Toy-maker; I have broug… As much in my plack as should fetc… I’ll array for you now my stock of… And man’s the raree will show you. Here’s a horse that is rearing to…
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. THE PARROT AND THE F… MY Afghan poet-friend With this made his message end, ‘The scroll around my wall shows t… The parrot and falcon they
THE great ship lantern-girdled. The tender standing by; The waning stars cloud-shrouded, The land that we descry! That pale land is our homeland,
WHEN you were a lad that lacked… Oh, many’s the thing you’d see on… From Kill-o’-the-Grange to Bally… And from Cabinteely down into Bra… When you walked these roads the wh…
IN broad daylight He should not be: Yet toward and froward, Froward and toward He weaves a flight.
THEN, suddenly, I was aware inde… Of what he said, and was revolving… How, in the night, crows often tak… Rising from off the tree-tops in… And flying on: I pictured what he…
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…
WE’VE watched the starlings floc… That we have often seen in other c… Hope, Justice, Commerce and have… Unvarying songs that are their mem… Memories of winds that they’ve bee…
You would not slumber If laid at my breast: You would not slumber. The river-flood beats The swan from her nest: