#IrishWriters
Good-bye, good-bye to Summer! For Summer’s nearly done; The garden smiling faintly, Cool breezes in the sun; Our Thrushes now are silent,
Up the airy mountain, Down the rushy glen, We daren’t go a-hunting For fear of little men; Wee folk, good folk,
Now Autumn’s fire burns slowly al… And day by day the dead leaves fal… And night by night the monitory bl… Wails in the key-hold, telling how… O’er empty fields, or upland solit…
In Sussex here, by shingle and by… Flat fields and farmsteads in thei… The shallow tide-wave courses to t… And all along the down a fringe on… Of ducal woods. That 'dim discove…
Gold tassel upon March’s bugle-ho… Whose blithe reveille blows from h… And every valley rings—O Daffodil… What promise for the season newly… Shall wave on wave of flow’rs, ful…
See the pretty planet! Floating sphere! Faintest breeze will fan it Far or near; World as light as feather;
I thought it was the little bed I slept in long ago; A straight white curtain at the he… And two smooth knobs below. I thought I saw the nursery fire,
I once was a guest at a Nobleman’… Fair was the Bride, but she scarc… And now in our mirth, she had tear… Her former true lover still runs i… Attired like a minstrel, her forme…
O Spirit of the Summertime! Bring back the roses to the dells… The swallow from her distant clime… The honey-bee from drowsy cells. Bring back the friendship of the s…
Gray, gray is Abbey Assaroe, by… It has neither door nor window, th… The carven-stones lie scatter’d in… The only feet are those that come… A little rocky rivulet runs murmur…
Little Cowboy, what have you hear… Up on the lonely rath’s green moun… Only the plaintive yellow bird Sighing in sultry fields around, Chary, chary, chary, chee—ee!—
I heard the dogs howl in the moonl… I went to the window to see the si… All the Dead that ever I knew Going one by one and two by two. On they pass’d, and on they pass’d…
That which he did not feel, he wou… What most he felt, religion it was… In a dumb darkling grotto, where t… Of tremulous tears, arising unespi… Became a holy well that durst not…
Within a budding grove, In April’s ear sang every bird hi… But not a song to pleasure my unre… Or touch the tears unwept of bitte… Some spake, methought, with pity,…
By the shore, a plot of ground Clips a ruined chapel round, Buttressed with a grassy mound; Where Day and Night and Day go b… And bring no touch of human sound.