#IrishWriters #NobelPrize
A certain poet in outlandish cloth… Gathered a crowd in some Byzantin… Talked1 of his country and its peo… To some stringed instrument none t… A wall behind his back, over his h…
The old priest Peter Gilligan Was weary night and day For half his flock were in their b… Or under green sods lay. Once, while he nodded in a chair
Now, man of croziers, shadows call… And then away, away, like whirling… And now fled by, mist-covered, wit… The youth and lady and the deer an… ‘Gaze no more on the phantoms,’ N…
My Soul. I summon to the winding… Set all your mind upon the steep a… Upon the broken, crumbling battlem… Upon the breathless starlit air, 'Upon the star that marks the hidd…
From pleasure of the bed, Dull as a worm, His rod and its butting head Limp as a worm, His spirit that has fled
Old fathers, great-grandfathers, Rise as kindred should. If ever lover’s loneliness Came where you stood, Pray that Heaven protect us
Why should I blame her that she f… With misery, or that she would of… Have taught to ignorant men most v… Or hurled the little streets upon… Had they but courage equal to desi…
If you, that have grown old, were… Neither catalpa tree nor scented l… Should hear my living feet, nor wo… Where we wrought that shall break… Let the new faces play what tricks…
SHE is foremost of those that I… I have gone about the house, gone… As a man does who has published a… Or a young girl dressed out in her… And though I have turned the talk…
All things uncomely and broken, All things worn-out and old, The cry of a child by the roadway, The creak of a lumbering cart, The heavy steps of the ploughman,
We who are old, old and gay, O so old! Thousands of years, thousands of y… If all were told: Give to these children, new from t…
She lived in storm and strife, Her soul had such desire For what proud death may bring That it could not endure The common good of life,
Shepherd. That cry’s from the fir… I wished before it ceased. Goatherd. Nor bird n… Could make me wish for anything th… Being old, but that the old alone…
I wander by the edge Of this desolate lake Where wind cries in the sedge: Until the axle break That keeps the stars in their roun…
O what to me the little room That was brimmed up with prayer an… He bade me out into the gloom, And my breast lies upon his breast… O what to me my mother’s care,
