Beauty was that Far vanished flame, Call it a star Wanting better name. And gaze and gaze

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…

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…

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

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 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…

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

There’s a wind blowing Cold through the corridors, A ghost-wind, The flapping of defeated wings, A hell-fantasy

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…

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

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…

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

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…

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…