#Irish
AND that was when the chevaldour Through the whole of night Sang, for the moon of mid-July Made the hillside bright. Morfydd to David ap Gwillam spoke
IN companies or lone They bend their heads, their hands They busy with their gear, Accomplishing the stitch That turns the stocking-heel,
WITH sapphire for her crown, And with the Libyan wine For lustre of her eyes; With azure on her feet As though she trod the skies;
SHALL I go bound and you go fre… And love one so removed from me? Not so; the falcon o’er my brow Hath better quest, I dare avow! And must I run where you will rid…
WE mark the playing-time of sun a… Until the rain too heavily upon us Leans, and the sun stamps down upo… And then our trees stand in their… No different from the privets in t…
THE stir of children with fresh d… And men who meet and say unguarded… And women from the coops Of drudgeries released; And standing at their doors to wat…
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,
SANDALWOOD, you say, and in y… With Tyre and Solomon; to me it r… With places bare upon Pacific mou… With spaces empty in the minds of… Sandalwood!
SOJOURNER, set down Your skimming wheel; Nothing is sharp That we have of steel: Nothing has edge:
MOULD-COLOURED like the leaf… The autumn branch, he rises now, t… The cold eyes of the gannets see t… He has No-whither. Who was it mar… Earth from the waters? Who
On and on, O white brother! Thunder does not daunt thee! How thou movest! By thine impulse
THE great ship lantern-girdled. The tender standing by; The waning stars cloud-shrouded, The land that we descry! That pale land is our homeland,
An age being mathematical, these f… Of linear stalks and spheroid bloo… By men with wakened, speculative m… And when with mathematics they exp… The Macrocosm, and came at last t…
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
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.