#IrishWriters
In a little Hungarian cafe Men and women are drinking Yellow wine in tall goblets. Through the milky haze of the smok… The fiddler, under-sized, blond,
When Art goes bounding, lean, Up hill-tops fired green To pluck a rose for life. Life like a broody hen Cluck-clucks him back again.
Bountiful Givers, I look along the years And see the flowers you threw’¦ Anemones And sprigs of gray
Radiant notes piercing my narrow-chested room, beating down through my ceiling - smeared with unshapen belly-prints of dreams
Last night I watched a star fall like a great… Till my ego expanding encompassed… Containing both as in a trembling…
Men die’¦ Dreams only change their houses. They cannot be lined up against a… And quietly buried under ground, And no more heard of’¦
Small towns Crawling out of their green shirts… Tubercular towns Coughing a little in the dawn... And the church...
I THOUGHT to die that night in… But there was time ... And I lay quietly on the drawn kn… I do not know how long ... I could not count the hours, they…
Aren’t there bigger things to talk… Than a window in Greenwich Villag… And hyacinths sprouting Like little puce poems out of a si… Some cosmic hearsay—
They pass through the great iron g… Men with eyes gravely discerning, Skilled to appraise the tunnage of… Or split an inch into thousandths… Men tempered by fire as the ore is
Cool, inaccessible air Is floating in velvety blackness s… But no breath stirs the heat Leaning its ponderous bulk upon th… And most on Hester street…
There is music in the strong Deep-throated bush, Whisperings of song Heard in the leaves’ hush - Ballads of the trees
Your love was like moonlight turning harsh things to beauty, so that little wry souls reflecting each other obliquely as in cracked mirrors . . .
We are old, Old as song. Before Rome was Or Cyrene. Mad nights knew us
Your love was like moonlight turning harsh things to beauty, so that little wry souls reflecting each other obliquely as in cracked mirrors’¦ beheld in your luminous spirit their own r...