#Irish #NobelPrize #XIXCentury #XXCentury
Ribb at the Tomb of Baile and Aillinn BECAUSE you have found me in the pitc… With open book you ask me what I do. Mark and digest my tale, carry it afar To those that never saw this tonsured he…
COME gather round me, Parnellites, And praise our chosen man; Stand upright on your legs awhile, Stand upright while you can, For soon we lie where he is laid,
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…
Under the Great Comedian’s tomb the cro… A bundle of tempestuous cloud is blown About the sky; where that is clear of cl… Brightness remains; a brighter star shoo… What shudders run through all that anima…
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 sands, And with heart more old than the horn
#1899 #TheWindAmongTheReeds
FOR one throb of the artery, While on that old grey stone I Sat Under the old wind-broken tree, I knew that One is animate, Mankind inanimate fantasy’.
I, THE poet William Yeats, With old mill boards and sea-green slate… And smithy work from the Gort forge, Restored this tower for my wife George; And may these characters remain
WHAT sort of man is coming To lie between your feet? What matter, we are but women. Wash; make your body sweet; I have cupboards of dried fragrance.
THE cat went here and there And the moon spun round like a top, And the nearest kin of the moon, The creeping cat, looked up. Black Minnaloushe stared at the moon,
OTHERS because you did not keep That deep-sworn vow have been friends of… Yet always when I look death in the fac… When I clamber to the heights of sleep, Or when I grow excited with wine,
Beloved, may your sleep be sound That have found it where you fed. What were all the world’s alarms To mighty paris when he found Sleep upon a golden bed
POETRY, music, I have loved, and yet Because of those new dead That come into my soul and escape Confusion of the bed, Or those begotten or unbegotten
The harlot sang to the beggar-man. I meet them face to face, Conall, Cuchulain, Usna’s boys, All that most ancient race; Maeve had three in an hour, they say.
SHE might, so noble from head To great shapely knees The long flowing line, Have walked to the altar Through the holy images
I ranted to the knave and fool, But outgrew that school, Would transform the part, Fit audience found, but cannot rule My fanatic heart.
#1933 #TheWindingStairAndOtherPoems