#IrishWriters
THAT civilisation may not sink, Its great battle lost, Quiet the dog, tether the pony To a distant post; Our master Caesar is in the tent
Where dips the rocky highland Of Sleuth Wood in the lake, There lies a leafy island Where flapping herons wake The drowsy water rats;
I rise in the dawn, and I kneel a… Till the seed of the fire flicker… And then I must scrub and bake an… Till stars are beginning to blink… And the young lie long and dream i…
WHAT if I bade you leave The cavern of the mind? There’s better exercise In the sunlight and wind. I never bade you go
THIS great purple butterfly, In the prison of my hands, Has a learning in his eye Not a poor fool understands. Once he lived a schoolmaster
‘O cruel Death, give three things… Sang a bone upon the shore; ‘A child found all a child can lac… Whether of pleasure or of rest, Upon the abundance of my breast’:
We sat together at one summer’s en… That beautiful mild woman, your cl… And you and I, and talked of poet… I said, ‘A line will take us hour… Yet if it does not seem a moment’s…
A moonlight moor. Fairies lead… Male Fairies: Do not fear us, ear… We will lead you hand in hand By the willows in the glade, By the gorse on the high land,
WOULD I could cast a sail on th… Where many a king has gone And many a king’s daughter, And alight at the comely trees and… The playing upon pipes and the dan…
What’s riches to him That has made a great peacock With the pride of his eye? The wind-beaten, stone-grey, And desolate Three Rock
WHERE has Maid Quiet gone to, Nodding her russet hood? The winds that awakened the stars Are blowing through my blood. O how could I be so calm
A MOST astonishing thing— Seventy years have I lived; (Hurrah for the flowers of Spring… For Spring is here again.) Seventy years have I lived
The light of evening, Lissadell, Great windows open to the south, Two girls in silk kimonos, both Beautiful, one a gazelle. But a raving autumn shears
I admit the briar Entangled in my hair Did not injure me; My blenching and trembling, Nothing but dissembling,
WE have cried in our despair That men desert, For some trivial affair Or noisy, insolent sport, Beauty that we have won