#IrishWriters
FOUL-FEATHERED and scald-nec… They sit in evil state; Raw marks upon their breasts As on men’s wearing chains. Impure, though they may plunge
THE Plovers fly and cry around, Unguided, nestless, without bourn, Wandering and impetuous, Turning and flying to return. These wild birds seen on Ireland’…
I HAVE saddled your white steed,… Your belt with crystal clasps, you… Your carbine silver-chased; now er… Across the sky-wide steppe, a hors… A promise make your bride: that at…
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
‘I KNOW where I’d get An ass that would do, If I had the money A pound or two.’ Said a ragged man
‘BELOW there are white-faced thr… Their march is a tide coming High… Below there are white-faced throng… Their faith is a banner flung high… Below there are white-faced throng…
MAVOURNEEN, we’ll go far away From the net of the crooked town Where they grudge us the light of… Around my neck you will lay Two tight little arms of brown.
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
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,
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…
SANDALWOOD, you say, and in y… With Tyre and Solomon; to me it r… With places bare upon Pacific mou… With spaces empty in the minds of… Sandalwood!
THE Wild Ass lounges, legs struc… In vagrom unconcern: The tombs o Achaemenian kings Are for those hooves to spurn. And all of rugged Tartary
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…
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…
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…