#IrishWriters
THEY came in the early spring-da… With the first refreshing showers And I watched the growing beauty Of the little drooping flowers. They had no bright hues to charm m…
‘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…
WISE men use days as husbandmen… And steal rich drops from every pr… Others, like wasps on blossomed ap… Find gall, not honey, in the sweet… Congratulations for a scene like t…
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…
I often, musing, wander back to da… And far-off scenes and long-lost f… A group familiar now I see, who a… My mother, sister Jane, myself, a… I’ll tell you how I see them now.…
THERE once was a time when, as o… The earth was not round, but an en… The sea was as wide as the heavens… Just millions of miles, and begin… And that was the time—ay, and more…
LOVE was true to me, True and tender; I who ought to be Love’s defender, Let the cold winds blow
There are lonesome places upon the… That have never re-echoed a sound… Where the spirits abide that feast… On the shuddering soul of a murder… And take grim delight in the fearf…
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,…
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,
Chicago, October 9,1871. GAUNT in the midst of the prairi… She who was once so fair; Charred and rent are her garments, Heavy and dark like cerements;
A KING once made a gallery of ar… With portraits of dead friends and… And at the end, ‘neath curtains dr… An empty marble pedestal was place… Here, every day, the king would co…
They brought them up from their hu… The woeful sufferers gaunt and gri… They flocked from the city’s noiso… To the Monarch’s throne to be tou… ‘For his touch,’ they whisper, ‘is…
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:…
IN the Spring we see: Then the buds are dear to us—immat… In the Summer we live: When bright eyes are near to us, o… In the Autumn we love: