#Irish #NobelPrize #XIXCentury #XXCentury #1933 #TheWindingStairAndOtherPoems
‘What do you make so fair and brig… ‘I make the cloak of Sorrow: O lovely to see in all men’s sight Shall be the cloak of Sorrow, In all men’s sight.’
I found that ivory image there Dancing with her chosen youth, But when he wound her coal-black h… As though to strangle her, no scre… Or bodily movement did I dare,
(For Harry Clifton) I HAVE heard that hysterical wom… They are sick of the palette and f… Of poets that are always gay, For everybody knows or else should…
A strange thing surely that my hea… Upon the Norman upland or in that… Should find no burden but itself a… It could not bear that burden and… The south wind brought it longing,…
A certain poet in outlandish cloth… Gathered a crowd in some Byzantin… Talked1 of his country and its peo… To some stringed instrument none t… A wall behind his back, over his h…
Wine comes in at the mouth And love comes in at the eye; That’s all we shall know for truth Before we grow old and die. I lift the glass to my mouth,
Ah, but Time has touched a form That could show what Homer’s age Bred to be a hero’s wage. ‘Were not all her life but storm, Would not painters paint a form
Who talks of Plato’s spindle; What set it whirling round? Eternity may dwindle, Time is unwound, Dan and Jerry Lout
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…
I have met them at close of day Coming with vivid faces From counter or desk among grey Eighteenth-century houses. I have passed with a nod of the he…
‘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…
From pleasure of the bed, Dull as a worm, His rod and its butting head Limp as a worm, His spirit that has fled
We sat under an old thorn-tree And talked away the night, Told all that had been said or don… Since first we saw the light, And when we talked of growing up
Swift has sailed into his rest; Savage indignation there Cannot lacerate his breast. Imitate him if you dare, World-besotted traveller; he
I dreamed as in my bed I lay, All night’s fathomless wisdom come… That I had shorn my locks away And laid them on Love’s lettered… But something bore them out of sig…
