#IrishWriters
Martin Cunningham, first, poked his silkhatted head into the creaking carriage and, entering deftly, seated himself. Mr Power stepped in after him, curving his height with care. Mr Deda...
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
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…
The twilight turns from amethyst To deep and deeper blue, The lamp fills with a pale green g… The trees of the avenue. The old piano plays an air,
He Who Hath Glory Lost He who hath glory lost, nor hath Found any soul to fellow his, Among his foes in scorn and wrath Holding to ancient nobleness,
Wind whines and whines the shingle… The crazy pierstakes groan; A senile sea numbers each single Slimesilvered stone. From whining wind and colder
Bid adieu, adieu, adieu, Bid adieu to girlish days, Happy Love is come to woo Thee and woo thy girlish ways— The zone that doth become thee fai…
Winds of May, that dance on the s… Dancing a ring—around in glee From furrow to furrow, while overh… The foam flies up to be garlanded, In silvery arches spanning the air…
O, it was out by Donnycarney When the bat flew from tree to tre… My love and I did walk together; And sweet were the words she said… Along with us the summer wind
I would in that sweet bosom be (O sweet it is and fair it is!) Where no rude wind might visit me. Because of sad austerities I would in that sweet bosom be.
Dear heart, why will you use me so… Dear eyes that gently me upbraid, Still are you beautiful – but O, How is your beauty raimented! Through the clear mirror of your e…
He travels after a winter sun, Urging the cattle along a cold red… Calling to them, a voice they know… He drives his beasts above Cabra. The voice tells them home is warm.
O bella bionda, Sei come l’onda! Of cool sweet dew and radiance mil… The moon a web of silence weaves In the still garden where a child
In the dark pine—wood I would we lay, In deep cool shadow At noon of day. How sweet to lie there,
My dove, my beautiful one, Arise, arise! The night-dew lies Upon my lips and eyes. The odorous winds are weaving