#Irish #NobelPrize
HAS no one said those daring Kind eyes should be more learn’d? Or warned you how despairing The moths are when they are burned… I could have warned you; but you a…
What shall I do with this absurdi… O heart, O troubled heart—this ca… Decrepit age that has been tied to… As to a dog’s tail? Never had I more
Blessed be this place, More blessed still this tower; A bloody, arrogant power Rose out of the race Uttering, mastering it,
I ranted to the knave and fool, But outgrew that school, Would transform the part, Fit audience found, but cannot rul… My fanatic heart.
In tombs of gold and lapis lazuli Bodies of holy men and women exude Miraculous oil, odour of violet. But under heavy loads of trampled… Lie bodies of the vampires full of…
SANG Solomon to Sheba, And kissed her dusky face, ‘All day long from mid-day We have talked in the one place, All day long from shadowless noon
AN old man cocked his ear upon a… He and his friend, their faces to… Had trod the uneven road. Their b… Their Connemara cloth worn out of… They had kept a steady pace as tho…
Like the moon her kindness is, If kindness I may call What has no comprehension in’t, But is the same for all As though my sorrow were a scene
HIS chosen comrades thought at sc… He must grow a famous man; He thought the same and lived by r… All his twenties crammed with toil… ‘What then?’ sang Plato’s ghost.…
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.
Out-Worn heart, in a time out-wor… Come clear of the nets of wrong an… Laugh, heart, again in the grey tw… Sigh, heart, again in the dew of t… Your mother Eire is aways young,
What’s riches to him That has made a great peacock With the pride of his eye? The wind-beaten, stone-grey, And desolate Three Rock
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…
Once, when midnight smote the air, Eunuchs ran through Hell and met On every crowded street to stare Upon great Juan riding by: Even like these to rail and sweat
WHY should not old men be mad? Some have known a likely lad That had a sound fly-fisher’s wris… Turn to a drunken journalist; A girl that knew all Dante once