Friends... old friends... One sees how it ends. A woman looks Or a man lies, And the pleasant brooks

St. Margaret’s bells, Quiring their innocent, old-world… Sing in the storied air, All rosy-and-golden, as with memor… Of woods at evensong, and sands an…

We’ll go no more a-roving by the l… November glooms are barren beside… The summer flowers are faded, the… We’ll go no more a-roving, lest wo… We’ll go no more a-roving by the l…

From the brake the Nightingale Sings exulting to the Rose; Though he sees her waxing pale In her passionate repose, While she triumphs waxing frail,

SONS of Shannon, Tamar, Trent, Men of the Lothians, Men of Kent… Essex, Wessex, shore and shire, Mates of the net, the mine, the fi… Lads of the wheel and desk and loo…

Gulls in an aery morrice Gleam and vanish and gleam . . . The full sea, sleepily basking, Dreams under skies of dream. Gulls in an aery morrice

If I were king, my pipe should be… The skies of time and chance are s… We would inform them all with blan… Delight alone would need to shed a… For dream and deed should war no m…

You are carried in a basket, Like a carcase from the shambles, To the theatre, a cockpit Where they stretch you on a table. Then they bid you close your eyeli…

Life in her creaking shoes Goes, and more formal grows, A round of calls and cues: Love blows as the wind blows. Blows! . . . in the quiet close

Some three, or five, or seven, and… A Roman nose; a dimpling double-c… Dark eyes and shy that, ignorant o… Are yet acquainted, it would seem,… A comely shape; a slim, high-colou…

To GARRYOWEN upon an organ gr… Two girls are jigging. Riotously… With eyes aflame, quick bosoms, ha… As in the tumult of a witches’ rou… Youngsters and youngsters round th…

Let us be drunk, and for a while f… Forget, and, ceasing even from reg… Live without reason and despite of… As in a dream preposterous and sub… Where place and hour and means for…

Praise the generous gods for givin… In a world of wrath and strife, With a little time for living, Unto all the joy of life. At whatever source we drink it,

Take, dear, my little sheaf of son… For, old or new, All that is good in them belongs Only to you; And, singing as when all was young…