#Irish #NobelPrize #XIXCentury #XXCentury
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
The woods of Arcady are dead, And over is their antique joy; Of old the world on dreaming fed; Grey Truth is now her painted toy… Yet still she turns her restless h…
ALTHOUGH I shelter from the ra… Under a broken tree My chair was nearest to the fire In every company That talked of love or politics,
We who are old, old and gay, O so old! Thousands of years, thousands of y… If all were told: Give to these children, new from t…
Your hooves have stamped at the bl… Even where horrible green parrots… My works are all stamped down into… I knew that horse-play, knew it fo… What wholesome sun has ripened is…
When you are old and grey and full… And nodding by the fire, take down… And slowly read, and dream of the… Your eyes had once, and of their s… How many loved your moments of gla…
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
That crazed girl improvising her m… Her poetry, dancing upon the shore… Her soul in division from itself Climbing, falling She knew not wh… Hiding amid the cargo of a steamsh…
Shy one, shy one, Shy one of my heart, She moves in the firelight Pensively apart. She carries in the dishes,
Had I the heavens’ embroidered cl… Enwrought with golden and silver l… The blue and the dim and the dark… Of night and light and the half—li… I would spread the cloths under yo…
A man came slowly from the setting… To Emer, raddling raiment in her… And said, “I am that swineherd wh… Go watch the road between the wood… But now I have no need to watch i…
I HAVE heard the pigeons of the… Make their faint thunder, and the… Hum in the lime-tree flowers; and… The unavailing outcries and the ol… That empty the heart. I have forg…
The host is riding from Knocknare… And over the grave of Clooth-na-B… Caoilte tossing his burning hair, And Niamh calling Away, come away… Empty your heart of its mortal dre…
Much did I rage when young, Being by the world oppressed, But now with flattering tongue It speeds the parting guest.
Although I can see him still, The freckled man who goes To a grey place on a hill In grey Connemara clothes At dawn to cast his flies,
