#Irish #NobelPrize #XIXCentury #XXCentury
We who are old, old and gay, O so old! Thousands of years, thousands of years, If all were told: Give to these children, new from the wor…
The island dreams under the dawn And great boughs drop tranquillity; The peahens dance on a smooth lawn, A parrot sways upon a tree, Raging at his own image in the enamelled…
#1889 #TheWanderingsOfOisinAndOtherPoems
i{"Though to my feathers in the wet,} i{I have stood here from break of day.} i{I have not found a thing to eat,} i{For only rubbish comes my way.} i{Am I to live on lebeen-lone?'}
The dews drop slowly and dreams gather;… Suddenly hurtle before my dream-awakened… And then the clash of fallen horsemen an… Of unknown perishing armies beat about m… We who still labour by the cromlech on t…
#1899 #TheWindAmongTheReeds
These are the clouds about the fallen su… The majesty that shuts his burning eye: The weak lay hand on what the strong has… Till that be tumbled that was lifted hig… And discord follow upon unison,
#1910 #TheGreenHelmetAndOtherPoems
BECAUSE I am mad about women I am mad about the hills,’ Said that wild old wicked man Who travels where God wills. ‘Not to die on the straw at home.
I saw a staring virgin stand Where holy Dionysus died, And tear the heart out of his side. And lay the heart upon her hand And bear that beating heart away;
#1928 #TheTower
I SAY that Roger Casement Did what he had to do. He died upon the gallows, But that is nothing new. Afraid they might be beaten
I THOUGHT of your beauty, and this a… Made out of a wild thought, is in my mar… There’s no man may look upon her, no man… As when newly grown to be a woman, Tall and noble but with face and bosom
“Would it were anything but merely voice… The No King cried who after that was K… Because he had not heard of anything That balanced with a word is more than n… Yet Old Romance being kind, let him pre…
I KNOW that I shall meet my fate Somewhere among the clouds above; Those that I fight I do not hate, Those that I guard I do not love; My county is Kiltartan Cross,
The host is riding from Knocknarea And over the grave of Clooth-na-Bare; Caoilte tossing his burning hair, And Niamh calling Away, come away: Empty your heart of its mortal dream.
HANDS, do what you’re bid; Bring the balloon of the mind That bellies and drags in the wind Into its narrow shed.
WE sat together at one summer’s end, That beautiful mild woman, your close fr… And you and I, and talked of poetry. I said, 'A line will take us hours mayb… Yet if it does not seem a moment’s thoug…
A MAN I praise that once in Tara’s Ha… Said to the woman on his knees, ‘Lie st… My hundredth year is at an end. I thin… That something is about to happen, I th… That the adventure of old age begins.