#IrishWriters
A sunset’s mounded cloud; A diamond evening-star; Sad blue hills afar; Love in his shroud. Scarcely a tear to shed;
Chequer’d with woven shadows as I… Among the grass, blinking the wate… I saw an Echo-Spirit in his bay Most idly floating in the noontide… Slow heaved his filmy skiff, and f…
Seek up and down, both fair and br… We’ve purty lasses many, O; But brown or fair, one girl most r… The Flow’r o’ Belashanny, O. As straight is she as poplar-tree
See the pretty planet! Floating sphere! Faintest breeze will fan it Far or near; World as light as feather;
O spirit of the Summer-time! 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…
Pluck not the wayside flower, It is the traveller’s dower; A thousand passers-by Its beauties may espy, May win a touch of blessing
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…
With grief and mourning I sit to… My Love passed by, and he didn’t… He passes by me, both day and nigh… And carries off my poor heart’s de… There is a tavern in yonder town,
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…
Four ducks on a pond, A grass-bank beyond, A blue sky of spring, White clouds on the wing; What a little thing
When the spinning-room was here Came Three Damsels, clothed in wh… With their spindles every night; One and Two and three fair Maiden… Spinning to a pulsing cadence,
Down on the shore, on the sunny sh… Where the salt smell cheers the la… Where the tide moves bright under… And the surge on the glittering st… Where the children wade in the sha…
Adieu to Belashanny! where I was… Go where I may, I’ll think of you… The kindly spot, the friendly town… And not a face in all the place bu… There’s not a house or window, the…
Up the airy mountain, Down the rushy glen, We daren’t go a-hunting For fear of little men; Wee folk, good folk,
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…