#IrishWriters
Will you feast with me, American… But what have I that shall seem g… On my board are bitter apples And honey served on thorns, And in my flagons fluid iron,
The old men of the world have made… To warm their trembling hands. They poke the young men in. The young men burn like withes. If one run a little way,
I am of the wind... A wisp of the battering wind... I trail my fingers along the Alps And an avalanche falls in my wake.… I feel in my quivering length
Dour river Jaded with monotony of lights Diving off mast heads.... Lights mad with creating in a rive… Heave up, river...
Crass rays streaming from the vest… Cafes glittering like jeweled teet… High-flung signs Blinking yellow phosphorescent eye… Girls in black
Was there a wind? Tap... tap... Night pads upon the snow with moccasined feet... and it is still... so still... an eagle's feather might fall like a stone. Could there have been a storm...
Life You have been good to me... You have not made yourself too dea… to juggle with.
A spring wind on the Bowery, Blowing the fluff of night shelter… Off bedraggled garments, And agitating the gutters, that ej… Like lewd growths.
Man of the flame-eyes And mouth with the bitter twist of… And little bald man . . . whose se… Is akin to the velocity of a spinn… Holding its perfect poise—
The foreman's head slowly circling... White rims under yellow disks of eyes.... Gold hairs
Cherry, cherry, glowing on the hearth, bright red cherry... When you try to pick up cherry Celia’s shriek
—Albert Parsons went to his death singing Annie Laurie; didn’t another have a rose in his coat–
Aren’t there bigger things to talk… Than a window in Greenwich Villag… And hyacinths sprouting Like little puce poems out of a si… Some cosmic hearsay—
I would be a torch unto your hand, A lamp upon your forehead, Labor, In the wild darkness before the D… That I shall never see… We shall advance together, my Bel…
Old plant of Asia - Mutilated vine Holding earth’s leaping sap In every stem and shoot That lopped off, sprouts again -