#Irish #NobelPrize
O THOUGHT, fly to her when the… Awakens an old memory, and say, ‘Your strength, that is so lofty a… It might call up a new age, callin… The queens that were imagined long…
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…
A MAN I praise that once in Tar… Said to the woman on his knees, ‘… My hundredth year is at an end.… That something is about to happen,… That the adventure of old age begi…
BEING out of heart with governme… I took a broken root to fling Where the proud, wayward squirrel… Taking delight that he could sprin… And he, with that low whinnying so…
FASTEN your hair with a golden… And bind up every wandering tress; I bade my heart build these poor r… It worked at them, day out, day in… Building a sorrowful loveliness
POETRY, music, I have loved, an… Because of those new dead That come into my soul and escape Confusion of the bed, Or those begotten or unbegotten
Laughter not time destroyed my voi… And put that crack in it, And when the moon’s pot-bellied I get a laughing fit, For that old Madge comes down the…
THE dews drop slowly and dreams g… Suddenly hurtle before my dream-aw… And then the clash of fallen horse… Of unknown perishing armies beat a… We who still labour by the cromlec…
The trees are in their autumn beau… The woodland paths are dry, Under the October twilight the wa… Mirrors a still sky; Upon the brimming water among the…
O bid me mount and sail up there Amid the cloudy wrack, For peg and Meg and Paris’ love That had so straight a back, Are gone away, and some that stay
O WHAT has made that sudden nois… What on the threshold stands? It never crossed the sea because John Bull and the sea are friends… But this is not the old sea
‘ALTHOUGH I’d lie lapped up in… A deal I’d sweat and little earn If I should live as live the neig… Cried the beggar, Billy Byrne; ‘Stretch bones till the daylight c…
The First. My great-grandfather s… In Grattan’s house. The Second. My great-grandfather… A pot-house bench with Oliver Gol… The Third. My great-grandfather’s…
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…
I met the Bishop on the road And much said he and I. ‘Those breasts are flat and fallen… Those veins must soon be dry; Live in a heavenly mansion,
