#IrishWriters
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…
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.
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…
We are the children of light, Wise, not companioned By goats In a condemned graveyard. Backward blowing
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…
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…
Now leave the check-reins slack, The seed is flying far today - The seed like stars against the bl… Eternity of April clay. This seed is potent as the seed
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…
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…
I have lived in important places,… When great events were decided, wh… That half a rood of rock, a no-man… Surrounded by our pitchfork-armed… I heard the Duffys shouting “Damn…
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…
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…
There’s a wind blowing Cold through the corridors, A ghost-wind, The flapping of defeated wings, A hell-fantasy
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