#Irish
You had the prose of logic and of… And words to sledge an iron argume… And yet you could draw down the ou… To perch beside the ravens of your… The dreams whereby a people challe…
‘Lost,’ ‘lost,’ the beeves and the… The cattle men sell and buy, Crowded upon the fair green, Low to the lightless sky. ‘Live,’ ‘live,’ and ‘Here,’ ‘here…
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
I AM a young girl; I live here alone: I write long letters But there is no one For me to send them to. My heart
THE little moths are creeping Across the cottage pane; On the floor the chickens gather, And they make talk and complain. And she sits by the fire
I AM sitting here Since the moon rose in the night, Kindling a fire, And striving to keep it alight; The folk of the house are lying
In The Farmer’s House I’M glad to lie on a sack of leav… By a wasted fire and take my ease. For the wind would strip me bare a… The wind would blow oul’ age upon…
BUT, Snake, you must not come wh… For you would tempt us; we should… ‘Oh, somewhere was a world was col… And voiceless; somewhere was a Be… Engrossed with substance, with no…
CAN it be that never more Men will grow on Islands? Ithaka and Eriskey, Iceland and Tahiti! Must the engines he has forged
ARCH-SCHOLAR they’ll call you… Kuno Mayer, Who know the word Behind the word The men of learning . . .
My young love said to me: My moth… And my father won’t slight you for… She put her arms ‘round me; these… It will not be long, love, ’til ou… Then she stepped away from me, and…
NOT as a woman of the English we… English Do I weep— A cry that scarcely stirs the hear… I lament as it is in my blood to l…
IN woods remote, hid in the mount… Doves there are that have a gentle… Doves that are marked as by a poet… And hence are called Doves of the… And such ye were, and we could nev…
THEY have hanged Roger Casement… of a bell, Ochone, och, ochone, ochone! And their Smiths, and their Murra… Ochone, och, ochone, ochone!