#Irish #NobelPrize
Some moralist or mythological poet Compares the solitary soul to a sw… I am satisfied with that, Satisfied if a troubled mirror sho… Before that brief gleam of its lif…
Through intricate motions ran Stream and gliding sun And all my heart seemed gay: Some stupid thing that I had done Made my attention stray.
I bring you with reverent hands The books of my numberless dreams, White woman that passion has worn As the tide wears the dove-grey sa… And with heart more old than the h…
Dry timber under that rich foliage… At wine-dark midnight in the sacre… Too old for a man’s love I stood… Imagining men. Imagining that I… A greater with a lesser pang assua…
My love, we will go, we will go,… And away in the woods we will scat… And the salmon behold, and the ous… My love, we will hear, I and you,… The calling afar of the doe and th…
Half close your eyelids, loosen yo… And dream about the great and thei… They have spoken against you every… But weigh this song with the great… I made it out of a mouthful of air…
STRETCH towards the moonless mi… As though that hand could reach to… And they but famous old upholsteri… Delightful to the touch; tighten t… As though to draw them closer yet.
I meditate upon a swallow’s flight… Upon a aged woman and her house, A sycamore and lime-tree lost in n… Although that western cloud is lum… Great works constructed there in n…
AND thus declared that Arab lady… ‘Last night, where under the wild… On grassy mattress I had laid me, Within my arms great Solomon, I suddenly cried out in a strange…
A storm beaten old watch-tower, A blind hermit rings the hour. All-destroying sword-blade still Carried by the wandering fool. Gold-sewn silk on the sword-blade,
O’Driscoll drove with a song The wild duck and the drake From the tall and the tufted reeds Of the drear Hart Lake. And he saw how the reeds grew dark
I admit the briar Entangled in my hair Did not injure me; My blenching and trembling, Nothing but dissembling,
‘O WORDS are lightly spoken,’ Said Pearse to Connolly, ‘Maybe a breath of politic words Has withered our Rose Tree; Or maybe but a wind that blows
Shepherd. That cry’s from the fir… I wished before it ceased. Goatherd. Nor bird nor beast Could make me wish for anything th… Being old, but that the old alone…
I AM tired of cursing the Bishop… (Said Crazy Jane) Nine books or nine hats Would not make him a man. I have found something worse