#IrishWriters
The night was creeping on the grou… She crept and did not make a sound Until she reached the tree, and th… She covered it, and sole again Along the grass beside the wall.
Come with me, under my coat, And we will drink our fill Of the milk of the white goat, Or wine, if it be thy will; And we will talk until
The crooked paths go every way Upon the hill - they wind about Through the heather in and out Of the quiet sunniness. And there the goats, day after day…
I thought I heard Him calling. D… A sound, a little sound? My curio… Is dinned with flying noises, and… Goes—whisper, whisper, whisper sil… Till all its whispers spread into…
Do not forget my charge I beg of… That of what flow’rs you find of f… And sweetest odor you do gather th… Are best of all the best—a fragran… A tall calm lily from the watersid…
I went to the Wood of Flowers (No one was with me): I was there alone for hours. I was happy as could be In the Wood of Flowers.
A little girl and a big ugly man Went down the road. The girl was… And asking to go home, but when sh… He hit her on the head and sent he… And called her a young imp, and sa…
In the winter time we go Walking in the fields of snow; Where there is no grass at all; Where the top of every wall, Every fence, and every tree,
Behind the hill I met a man in gr… Who asked me if my mother had gone… I said she had. He asked me had I… His castle where the people sing a… From dawn to dark, and told me tha…
There was a giant by the Orchard… Peeping about on this side and on… And feeling in the trees: he was a… As the big apple tree, and twice a… His beard was long, and bristly-bl…
I saw God. Do you doubt it? Do you dare to doubt it? I saw the Almighty Man. His hand Was resting on a mountain, and He looked upon the World and all…
A speck went blowing up against th… As little as a leaf: then it drew… And broadened.—' It’s a bird,' sa… And fetched my bow and arrows. It… It grew up from a speck into a blo…
Come from your bed my drowsy gentl… And you, fair lady, rise and braid… And let the children wash, if wash… If not, assist you them, and make… As is the morning and the morning…
The wind stood up and gave a shout… He whistled on his fingers and Kicked the withered leaves about And thumped the branches with his… And said that he’d kill and kill,
Every Sunday there’s a throng Of pretty girls, who trot along In a pious, breathless state (They are nearly always late) To the Chapel, where they pray
