#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…
O, to have a little house! To own the hearth and stool and al… The heaped up sods against the fir… The pile of turf against the wall! To have a clock with weights and c…
I HAVE saddled your white steed,… Your belt with crystal clasps, you… Your carbine silver-chased; now er… Across the sky-wide steppe, a hors… A promise make your bride: that at…
I. THE PARROT AND THE F… MY Afghan poet-friend With this made his message end, ‘The scroll around my wall shows t… The parrot and falcon they
A MOUNTAIN SPINNING SONG (A Young Girl sings it) THE Lannan Shee Watched the young man Brian Cross over the stile towards his f…
The Swallows sang ALIEN to us are Your fields, and your cotes, and y… Secret our nests are Although they be built in your eav…
How strangely like a churchyard sk… The thing that’s there amongst the… A Hornets’ nest; but stir the bra… And they’ll be round your head and… So wary ana so weaponed,
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…
‘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…
GREEN wings and yellow breasts o… That turn their heads and stare, And a red streamer tail! They come from Yucatan Where priests with clownish hats,…
O woman, shapely as the swan, On your account I shall not die: The men you’ve slain—a trivial cla… Were less than I. I ask me shall I die for these—
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
FOR the poor body that I own I could weep many a tear: The days have stolen flesh and bon… And left a changeling here. Four feeble bones are left to me,
I. THE TREES THERE is no glory of the sunset… Heavy the clouds upon the darkenin… And heavy, too, the wind upon the… The trees sway, making moan
ARCH-SCHOLAR they’ll call you… Kuno Mayer, Who know the word Behind the word The men of learning . . .