My black hills have never seen the… Eternally they look north towards… Lot’s wife would not be salt if sh… Incurious as my black hills that a… When dawn whitens Glassdrummond c…

We are the children of light, Wise, not companioned By goats In a condemned graveyard. Backward blowing

The birds sang in the wet trees And I listened to them it was a h… And I was dead and someone else w… But I was glad I had recorded for… The melancholy.

We have tested and tasted too much… Through a chink too wide there com… But here in the Advent-darkened r… Where the dry black bread and the… Of penance will charm back the lux…

They laughed at one I loved– The triangular hill that hung Under the Big Forth. They said That I was bounded by the whiteth… Of the little farm and did not kno…

Leafy-with-love banks and the gree… Pouring redemption for me, that I… The will of God, wallow in the ha… Grow with nature again as before… The bright stick trapped, the bree…

My father played the melodeon Outside at our gate, There were stars in the morning ea… And they danced to his music. Across the world bogs his melodeon…

Upon a bank I sat, a child made s… Of one small primrose flowering in… Better than wealth it is, I said,… One small page of Truth’s manuscr… I looked at Christ transfigured w…

We borrowed the loan of Kerr’s as… To go to Dundalk with butter, Brought him home the evening befor… And exile that night in Mucker. We heeled up the cart before the d…

Every old man I see Reminds me of my father When he had fallen in love with de… One time when sheaves were gathere… That man I saw in Gardner Street

April dusk It is tragic to be a poet now And not a lover Paradised under the mutest bough. I look through my window and see

The bicycles go by in twos and thr… There’s a dance in Billy Brennan’… And there’s the half-talk code of… And the wink-and-elbow language of… Half-past eight and there is not a…

One side of the potato—pits was wh… How wonderful that was, how wonder… And when we put our ears to the pa… The music that came out was magica… The light between the ricks of hay…

On an apple-ripe September mornin… Through the mist-chill fields I w… With a pitch-fork on my shoulder Less for use than for devilment. The threshing mill was set-up, I…

And sometimes I am sorry when the… Is growing over the stones in quie… And the cocksfoot leans across the… That I am not the voice of countr… Who now are standing by some headl…