#IrishWriters
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…
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…
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
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…
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…
On Raglan Road on an autumn day… That her dark hair would weave a s… I saw the danger, yet I walked al… And I said, let grief be a fallen… On Grafton Street in November we…
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…
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…
Clay is the word and clay is the f… Where the potato-gatherers like me… Along the side-fall of the hill -… If we watch them an hour is there… Of life as it is broken-backed ove…
I do not think of you lying in the… Of a Monaghan graveyard; I see You walking down a lane among the… On your way to the station, or hap… Going to second Mass on a summer…
O stony grey soil of Monaghan The laugh from my love you thieved… You took the gay child of my passi… And gave me your clod-conceived. You clogged the feet of my boyhood
We are the children of light, Wise, not companioned By goats In a condemned graveyard. Backward blowing
There’s a wind blowing Cold through the corridors, A ghost-wind, The flapping of defeated wings, A hell-fantasy
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…
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.