#1899 #IrishWriters #TheWindAmongTheReeds
Shepherd. That cry’s from the fir… I wished before it ceased. Goatherd. Nor bird n… Could make me wish for anything th… Being old, but that the old alone…
Who will go drive with Fergus now… And pierce the deep wood’s woven s… And dance upon the level shore? Young man, lift up your russet bro… And lift your tender eyelids, maid…
O BUT we talked at large before The sixteen men were shot, But who can talk of give and take, What should be and what not While those dead men are loitering…
‘Your eyes that once were never we… Are bowed in sotrow under pendulou… Because our love is waning.’ And then She: ‘Although our love is waning, let…
STRETCH towards the moonless mi… As though that hand could reach to… And they but famous old upholsteri… Delightful to the touch; tighten t… As though to draw them closer yet.
Sang old Tom the lunatic That sleeps under the canopy: ‘What change has put my thoughts a… And eyes that had so keen a sight? What has turned to smoking wick
‘THOUGH logic-choppers rule the… And every man and maid and boy Has marked a distant object down, An aimless joy is a pure joy,’ Or so did Tom O’Roughley say
Swayed upon the gaudy stern The butt-end of a steering-oar, And saw wherever I could turn A crown upon the shore. I And though I would have hushed…
ALL the heavy days are over; Leave the body’s coloured pride Underneath the grass and clover, With the feet laid side by side. One with her are mirth and duty;
THE girl goes dancing there On the leaf-sown, new-mown, smooth Grass plot of the garden; Escaped from bitter youth, Escaped out of her crowd,
Come, let me sing into your ear; Those dancing days are gone, All that silk and satin gear; Crouch upon a stone, Wrapping that foul body up
O THOUGHT, fly to her when the… Awakens an old memory, and say, ‘Your strength, that is so lofty a… It might call up a new age, callin… The queens that were imagined long…
My Soul. I summon to the winding… Set all your mind upon the steep a… Upon the broken, crumbling battlem… Upon the breathless starlit air, Upon the star that marks the hidde…
A storm beaten old watch-tower, A blind hermit rings the hour. All-destroying sword-blade still Carried by the wandering fool. Gold-sewn silk on the sword-blade,
Although I can see him still, The freckled man who goes To a grey place on a hill In grey Connemara clothes At dawn to cast his flies,