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…

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…

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

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 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…

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

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…

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…

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.

Back once again in wild, wet Mona… Exiled from thought and feeling, A mean brutality reigns: It is really a horrible position t… And I equate myself with Dante

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…

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…

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…

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…

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