ALTHOUGH I shelter from the ra
Under a broken tree
My chair was nearest to the fire
In every company
That talked of love or politics,

Pardon, old fathers, if you still
Somewhere in ear-shot for the stor
Old Dublin merchant “free of the
Or trading out of Galway into Spa
Old country scholar, Robert Emmet

A man that finds great bitterness
In thinking of his lost renown.
A Roman Caesar is held down
Under this hump.
According to a different plan.

I BRING you with reverent hands
The books of my numberless dreams,
White woman that passion has worn
As the tide wears the dove-grey sa
And with heart more old than the h

The trees are in their autumn beau
The woodland paths are dry,
Under the October twilight the wa
Mirrors a still sky;
Upon the brimming water among the

I walked among the seven woods of
Shan-walla, where a willow-hordere
Gathers the wild duck from the win
Shady Kyle-dortha; sunnier Kyle-n
Where many hundred squirrels are a

Endure what life God gives and as
Cease to remember the delights of
Delight becomes death-longing if a
Even from that delight memory trea
Death, despair, division of famili

Although I can see him still,
The freckled man who goes
To a grey place on a hill
In grey Connemara clothes
At dawn to cast his flies,

‘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

Behold that great Plotinus swim,
Buffeted by such seas;
Bland Rhadamanthus beckons him,
But the Golden Race looks dim,
Salt blood blocks his eyes.