#Irish #XIXCentury
A GOD-LIKE face, with human lo… And tender fancy traced in every l… A god-like face, but oh, how human… Dear Keats, who love the gods the…
THE world is large, when its wear… But the world is small, when your…
Poets should not reason: Let them sing! Argument is treason— Bells should ring. Statements none, nor questions;
IS he well blessed who has no eye… The woeful things that shadow all… The latent brute behind the eyes o… The place and power gained and sta… The weakly victims driven to the w…
“I am poor,” said Chunder Ali, wh… Frowned in supercilious anger at t… “I am friendless and a Hindoo: su… Here in China, where the Hindoo f… I have naught to buy your justice;…
St. Patrick’s Day WHAT a onion of hearts is the lo… When races of men in her name unit… For love of Old Erin, and love of… The boards of the Gael are full t…
’Twas a quaint old clock with a qu… and great iron weights and chain. It stopped when it liked, and befo… it creaked as if ’twere in pain. It had seen many years, and it see…
I am tired of planning and toiling In the crowded hives of men; Heart-weary of building and spoili… And spoiling and building again. And I long for the dear old river…
HOW did he live, this dead man he… With the temple above his grave? He lived as a great one, from crad… He was nursed in luxury, trained i… When the wish was born, it was gra…
O Beauteous Southland! Land of y… That hangeth o’ve thee slumbering,… The moveless foliage of thy valley… And wooded hills, like aureole of… Oh thou, discovered ere the fittin…
FOR every sin that comes before t… And leaves an outward blemish on t… How many, darker, cower out of sig… And burrow, blind and silent, like… And like the mole, too, with its b…
‘TWAS a dismal winter’s evening,… But within, the cheerful fire cast… O’er our pleasant little parlor, t… There she sat beside the glowing g… And beyond, within the shadow, in…
YE white-maned waves of the Weste… That ride and roll to the strand, Ye strong-winged birds, never forc… By the gales that sweep toward lan… Ye are symbols of death, and of ho…
DO not praise: a smile is payment… Who shall paint the mote’s glad ra… Nay, nor smile, for blind is eyesi… From the silence, from the twiligh… Songs were born before the singer:…
THE STORY OF AN ARCTIC N… AY, ay, I’ll tell you, shipmates, If you care to hear the tale, How myself and the royal yard alon… Were left of the old Narwhale.