#IrishWriters
IN the old Rabbinical stories, So old they might well be true,— The sacred tales of the Talmud, That David and Solomon knew,— There is one of the Father Abram,
THERE is an old tradition sacred… That says: 'Upon St. Martin’s Ev… No fishermen of Wexford shall, up… Set sail or cast a line within the… The tongue that framed the order,…
Do you love me?' she said, when th… And we walked where the stream thr… And I told and retold her my love… While she listened and smiled, and… Do you love me?' she whispered, wh…
WHAT man would be wise, let him… That bears on its bosom the record… A message to him every wave can de… To teach him to creep till he know… Who heeds not experience, trust hi…
‘SHE is dead!’ they say; 'she is… Her mother has kissed her clay-col… Her blue eyes show through the wax… Her grave is dug, and its heap of… ‘She is dead!’ they say to the peo…
O THE rare spring flowers! take… Do not wait forsummer buds—they ma… Every sweet to-day sends, we are w… Roses bloom for pulling: the path…
Though it lash the shallows that l… Afar from the great sea deeps, There is never a storm whose might… Where the vast leviathan sleeps. Like a mighty thought in a quiet m…
IN the far time of Earth’s sweet… When Morning hung with rapture on… When every sentient life paid love… And every law was Nature’s own be… When reason ruled as subtle instin…
Only from day to day The life of a wise man runs: What matter if seasons far away Have gloom or have double suns? To climb the unreal path,
THE kindly words that rise within… And thrill it with their sympathet… But die ere spoken, fail to play t… And claim a merit that is not thei… The kindly word unspoken is a sin,…
o The faithful helm commands the kee… From port to port fair breezes blo… But the ship must sail the convex… Nor may she straighter go.
DEAD, with his harness on him: Rigid and cold and white, Marking the place of the vanguard Still in the ancient fight. The climber dead on the hill-side,
ONCE I had a little sweetheart In the land of the Malay,— Such a little yellow sweetheart! Warm and peerless as the day Of her own dear sunny island,
The Infinite always is silent: It is only the Finite speaks. Our words are the idle wave-caps On the deep that never breaks. We may question with wand of scien…
I KNEW it all my boyhood: in a l… Like a dryad’s mirror hidden by th… Its eye flashed back the sunshine,… And I loved its truthful depths w… I scooped my hand and drank it, an…