#Irish
THE Thrush, the Lark, and, chief… With one small bird whose name I… Offered a Mass; the little bird w… At intervals he struck his silver… The stars above that were but whit…
OTHERS have divers paints and e… Lavish and bright on breast and wi… You, Guatemalan, have sunken all… Into glory of greenness! There may be palms as greenly resp…
I THINK some saint of Eirinn wa… Found you and brought you here De… For so I greet you in this alien… And like those maidens who were on… In their own land as daughters of…
IN companies or lone They bend their heads, their hands They busy with their gear, Accomplishing the stitch That turns the stocking-heel,
As I went down through Dublin cit… At the hour of twelve of the night… Who did I see but a Spanish lady Washing her feet by candle light. First she washed them,
WRITTEN TO THE LONDON… ‘Tira autumn sun your shadow’s flu… Upon the field where now your reap… Lo, there! And lo! Your reaper’s… Is on your forehead like a kingly…
NOT fingers that e’er felt Fine things within their hold Drew needles in and through, And smoothed out the fold, And put the hodden patch
THE Wild Ass lounges, legs struc… In vagrom unconcern: The tombs o Achaemenian kings Are for those hooves to spurn. And all of rugged Tartary
WE’VE watched the starlings floc… That we have often seen in other c… Hope, Justice, Commerce and have… Unvarying songs that are their mem… Memories of winds that they’ve bee…
Sunset and silence! A man: around… Beside him two horses—a plough! Earth savage, earth broken, the br… And the Plough that is twin to th… “Brute-tamer, plough-maker, earth-…
To Meath of the pastures, From wet hills by the sea, Through Leitrim and Longford Go my cattle and me. I hear in the darkness
Two men of art, they say, were wit… Of Milé,—a poet and a harp player… When Milé, having taken Ireland,… The land to his sons’ rule; the po… Cir, and fair Cendfind was the ha…
You would not slumber If laid at my breast: You would not slumber. The river-flood beats The swan from her nest:
First Old Man He threw his crutched stick down:… Into his face the anger flame, And he spoke viciously of one Who thwarted him—his son’s son.
FROM THE IRISH I’d bring you these for dowry A field from heather free, White sheep upon the mountain, And calves that follow me.