#Irish #NobelPrize #XIXCentury #XXCentury
I WOULD be ignorant as the dawn That has looked down On that old queen measuring a town With the pin of a brooch, Or on the withered men that saw
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…
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
“Put off that mask of burning gold With emerald eyes.” “O no, my dear, you make so bold To find if hearts be wild and wise… And yet not cold.”
WHAT need you, being come to sen… But fumble in a greasy till And add the halfpence to the pence And prayer to shivering prayer, un… You have dried the marrow from the…
COME gather round me, Parnellite… And praise our chosen man; Stand upright on your legs awhile, Stand upright while you can, For soon we lie where he is laid,
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 fragranc…
First Love THOUGH nurtured like the sailin… In beauty’s murderous brood, She walked awhile and blushed awhi… And on my pathway stood
The dews drop slowly and dreams ga… Suddenly hurtle before my dream-aw… And then the clash of fallen horse… Of unknown perishing armies beat a… We who still labour by the cromlec…
I, THE poet William Yeats, With old mill boards and sea-green… And smithy work from the Gort for… Restored this tower for my wife G… And may these characters remain
We that have done and thought, That have thought and done, Must ramble, and thin out Like milk spilt on a stone.
Between extremities Man runs his course; A brand, or flaming breath. Comes to destroy All those antinomies
HOPE that you may understand! What can books of men that wive In a dragon-guarded land, paintings of the dolphin-drawn Sea-nymphs in their pearly wagons
S. Patrick. You who are bent, and… With a heavy heart and a wandering… Have known three centuries, poets… Of dalliance with a demon thing. Oisin. Sad to remember, sick with…
Come round me, little childer; There, don’t fling stones at me Because I mutter as I go; But pity Moll Magee. My man was a poor fisher