‘CALL down the hawk from the air
Let him be hooded or caged
Till the yellow eye has grown mild
For larder and spit are bare,
The old cook enraged,

THE old brown thorn-trees break i
Under a bitter black wind that blo
Our courage breaks like an old tre
But we have hidden in our hearts t
Of Cathleen, the daughter of Houl

DEAR Craoibhin Aoibhin, look in
When we are high and airy hundreds
That if we hold that flight they’l
While those same hundreds mock ano
Because we have made our art of co

REMEMBER all those renowned ge
They left their bodies to fatten t
They left their homesteads to fatt
Fled to far countries, or sheltere
In cavern, crevice, or hole,

Through winter-time we call on spr
And through the spring on summer c
And when abounding hedges ring
Declare that winter’s best of all;
And after that there’s nothing goo

HANDS, do what you’re bid;
Bring the balloon of the mind
That bellies and drags in the wind
Into its narrow shed.

A certain poet in outlandish cloth
Gathered a crowd in some Byzantin
Talked1 of his country and its peo
To some stringed instrument none t
A wall behind his back, over his h

‘ALTHOUGH I’d lie lapped up in
A deal I’d sweat and little earn
If I should live as live the neig
Cried the beggar, Billy Byrne;
‘Stretch bones till the daylight c

(Song from an Unfinished Play)
My mother dandled me and sang,
‘How young it is, how young!’
And made a golden cradle
That on a willow swung.

O what to me the little room
That was brimmed up with prayer an
He bade me out into the gloom,
And my breast lies upon his breast
O what to me my mother’s care,