#IrishWriters
They mouth love’s language. Gnash The thirteen teeth Your lean jaws grin with. Lash Your itch and quailing, nude greed… Love’s breath in you is stale, wor…
Ineluctable modality of the visible: at least that if no more, thought through my eyes. Signatures of all things I am here to read, seaspawn and seawrack, the nearing tide, that rusty b...
My love is in a light attire Among the apple—trees, Where the gay winds do most desire To run in companies. There, where the gay winds stay to…
Because your voice was at my side I gave him pain, Because within my hand I held Your hand again. There is no word nor any sign
Before Nelson’s pillar trams slowed, shunted, changed trolley, started for Blackrock, Kingstown and Dalkey, Clonskea, Rathgar and Terenure, Palmerston Park and upper Rathmines, Sandymou...
At that hour when all things have… O lonely watcher of the skies, Do you hear the night wind and the… Of harps playing unto Love to unc… The pale gates of sunrise?
I hear an army charging upon the l… And the thunder of horses plunging… Arrogant, in black armour, behind… Disdaining the reins, with flutter… They cry unto the night their batt…
When the shy star goes forth in he… All maidenly, disconsolate, Hear you amid the drowsy even One who is singing by your gate. His song is softer than the dew
Preparatory to anything else Mr Bloom brushed off the greater bulk of the shavings and handed Stephen the hat and ashplant and bucked him up generally in orthodox Samaritan fashion whic...
The summer evening had begun to fold the world in its mysterious embrace. Far away in the west the sun was setting and the last glow of all too fleeting day lingered lovingly on sea and...
By Lorries along sir John Rogerson’s quay Mr Bloom walked soberly, past Windmill lane, Leask’s the linseed crusher, the postal telegraph office. Could have given that address too. And p...
Lightly come or lightly go: Though thy heart presage thee woe, Vales and many a wasted sun, Oread let thy laughter run, Till the irreverent mountain air
The Mabbot Street entrance of nighttown, before which stretches an uncobbled tramsiding set with skeleton tracks, red and green will-o’-the-wisps and danger signals. rows of grimy house...
Rain has fallen all the day. O come among the laden trees: The leaves lie thick upon the way Of memories. Staying a little by the way
In the dark pine—wood I would we lay, In deep cool shadow At noon of day. How sweet to lie there,