#Irish #NobelPrize #1933 #TheWindingStairAndOtherPoems
The Heavenly Circuit; Berenice’s… Tent-pole of Eden; the tent’s dra… Symbolical glory of thc earth and… The Father and His angelic hierar… That made the magnitude and glory…
The trees are in their autumn beau… The woodland paths are dry, Under the October twilight the wa… Mirrors a still sky; Upon the brimming water among the…
SING of the O’Rahilly, Do not deny his right; Sing a 'the’ before his name; Allow that he, despite All those learned historians,
Once, when midnight smote the air, Eunuchs ran through Hell and met From thoroughfare to thoroughfare, While that great Juan galloped by… And like these to rail and sweat
Under the Great Comedian’s tomb t… A bundle of tempestuous cloud is b… About the sky; where that is clear… Brightness remains; a brighter sta… What shudders run through all that…
FOR certain minutes at the least That crafty demon and that loud be… That plague me day and night Ran out of my sight; Though I had long perned in the g…
The deck of an ancient ship. At the right of the stage is the mast, with a large square sail hiding a great deal of the sky and sea on that side. The tiller is at the left of the stag...
Suddenly I saw the cold and rook-… That seemed as though ice burned a… And thereupon imagination and hear… So wild that every casual thought… Vanished, and left but memories, t…
THE Roaring Tinker if you like, But Mannion is my name, And I beat up the common sort And think it is no shame. The common breeds the common,
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…
Bolt and bar the shutter, For the foul winds blow: Our minds are at their best this n… And I seem to know That everything outside us is
O’Driscoll drove with a song The wild duck and the drake From the tall and the tufted reeds Of the drear Hart Lake. And he saw how the reeds grew dark
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
‘O WORDS are lightly spoken,’ Said Pearse to Connolly, ‘Maybe a breath of politic words Has withered our Rose Tree; Or maybe but a wind that blows
SHE that but little patience knew… From childhood on, had now so much A grey gull lost its fear and flew Down to her cell and there alit, And there endured her fingers’ tou…
