#IrishWriters #XIXCentury #CarpeDiem
WHERE shall we seek for a hero,… Our laurels are wreathed for conqu… But we honor a shrine unfinished,… If we sing the deed that was sown… Shall we take for a sign this Neg…
A LEGEND OF THE BUSH. MY tale which I have brought is o… Ere that fair Southern land was s… Brought thitherward in reeking shi… Like blight upon the coast, or lik…
YE white-maned waves of the Weste… That ride and roll to the strand, Ye strong-winged birds, never forc… By the gales that sweep toward lan… Ye are symbols of death, and of ho…
Nor gold, nor silver are the words… Nor rich-wrought chasing on design… But rugged relics of an unknown sp… Where fortune chanced I played on… Unthought of here the critic blame…
St. Patrick’s Day WHAT a onion of hearts is the lo… When races of men in her name unit… For love of Old Erin, and love of… The boards of the Gael are full t…
The Infinite always is silent: It is only the Finite speaks. Our words are the idle wave-caps On the deep that never breaks. We may question with wand of scien…
Have I no future left me? Is there no struggling ray From the sun of my life outshining Down on my darksome way? Will there no gleam of sunshine
HE was old and alone, and he sat… His beard was white, and his eye w… With a mild content at the way lif… ‘I will venture a look in this liv… And I said: ‘ My friend, have you…
IS he well blessed who has no eye… The woeful things that shadow all… The latent brute behind the eyes o… The place and power gained and sta… The weakly victims driven to the w…
HER hair was a waving bronze, and… Deep wells that might cover a broo… And who, till he weighed it, could… That her heart was a cinder instea…
Nation of sun and sin, Thy flowers and crimes are red, And thy heart is sore within While the glory crowns thy head. Land of the songless birds,
‘You gave me the key of your heart… Then why do you make me knock?’ ‘O, that was yesterday, Saints ab… And last night—I changed the lock…
O Beauteous Southland! Land of y… That hangeth o’ve thee slumbering,… The moveless foliage of thy valley… And wooded hills, like aureole of… Oh thou, discovered ere the fittin…
The dead who died for Ireland! Oh, these are living words To nerve the hearts of patriots— To steel avenging swords— They thrill the soul when spoken,
THE Word was first, says the rev… Justice is older than error or str… The Word preceded the Incarnation As symbol and type of law and life… And always so are the mighty chang…
