#IrishWriters
O pale green sea, With long, pale, purple clouds abo… What lies in me like weight of lov… What dies in me With utter grief, because there co…
O English mother, in the ruddy gl… Hugging your baby closer when outs… You see the silent, soft, and crue… Falling again, and think what ills… Unshelter’d creatures,- your sad t…
The vast and solemn company of clo… Around the Sun’s death, lit, inca… Cool into ashy wan; as Night ensh… The level pasture, creeping up beh… Through voiceless vales, o’er lawn…
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…
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,
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,
See how a Seed, which Autumn flun… And through the Winter neglected… Uncoils two little green leaves an… With tiny root taking hold on the… As, lifting and strengthening day…
A man there came, whence none coul… Bearing a Touchstone in his hand; And tested all things in the land By its unerring spell. Quick birth of transmutation smote
Up the airy mountain, Down the rushy glen, We daren’t go a-hunting For fear of little men; Wee folk, good folk,
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
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…
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…
Amy Margaret’s five years old, Amy Margaret’s hair is gold, Dearer twenty-thousand-fold Than gold, is Amy Margaret. “Amy” is friend, is “Margaret”
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…
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,