The Wild Swans at Coole. 1919.
#Irish #NobelPrize
I TURN round Like a dumb beast in a show. Neither know what I am Nor where I go, My language beaten
Far-Off, most secret, and inviola… Enfold me in my hour of hours; whe… Who sought thee in the Holy Sepul… Or in the wine-vat, dwell beyond t… And tumult of defeated dreams; and…
The heron-billed pale cattle-birds That feed on some foul parasite Of the Moroccan flocks and herds Cross the narrow Straits to light In the rich midnight of the garden…
NOW as at all times I can see in… In their stiff, painted clothes, t… Appear and disappear in the blue d… With all their ancient faces like… And all their helms of silver hove…
NOW all the truth is out, Be secret and take defeat From any brazen throat, For how can you compete, Being honour bred, with one
Man IN a cleft that’s christened Alt Under broken stone I halt At the bottom of a pit That broad noon has never lit,
WE have cried in our despair That men desert, For some trivial affair Or noisy, insolent sport, Beauty that we have won
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.…
I care not what the sailors say: All those dreadful thunder-stones, All that storm that blots the day Can but show that Heaven yawns; Great Europa played the fool
Hic. ON the grey sand beside the… Under your old wind-beaten tower,… A lamp burns on beside the open bo… That Michael Robartes left, you w… And though you have passed the bes…
I HAVE no happiness in dreaming… Nor Avalon the grass-green hollow… Where one found Lancelot crazed a… Nor Uladh, when Naoise had thrown… Nor lands that seem too dim to be…
Under my window-ledge the waters r… Otters below and moor-hens on the… Run for a mile undimmed in Heaven… Then darkening through 'dark’ Raf… Run underground, rise in a rocky p…
‘O cruel Death, give three things… Sang a bone upon the shore; ‘A child found all a child can lac… Whether of pleasure or of rest, Upon the abundance of my breast’:
Swear by what the sages spoke Round the Mareotic Lake That the Witch of Atlas knew, Spoke and set the cocks a-crow. Swear by those horsemen, by those…
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