The Wild Swans at Coole. 1919.
#Irish #NobelPrize
‘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.’
Where had her sweetness gone? What fanatics invent In this blind bitter town, Fantasy or incident Not worth thinking of,
Come let us mock at the great That had such burdens on the mind And toiled so hard and late To leave some monument behind, Nor thought of the levelling wind.
FATHER AND CHILD SHE hears me strike the board and… That she is under ban Of all good men and women, Being mentioned with a man
BELOVED, gaze in thine own hear… The holy tree is growing there; From joy the holy branches start, And all the trembling flowers they… The changing colours of its fruit
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…
Whence did all that fury come? From empty tomb or Virgin womb? Saint Joseph thought the world wo… But liked the way his finger smelt…
THE dews drop slowly and dreams g… 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…
Although crowds gathered once if s… And even old men’s eyes grew dim,… Like some last courtier at a gypsy… Babbling of fallen majesty, record… The lineaments, a heart that laugh…
O HURRY where by water among th… The delicate-stepping stag and his… When they have but looked upon the… Would none had ever loved but you… Or have you heard that sliding sil…
If any man drew near When I was young, I thought, ‘He holds her dear,’ And shook with hate and fear. But O! ‘twas bitter wrong
Three Voices [together]. Hurry to… The mouths that speak, the notes a… O masters of the glittering town! O! lay the shrilly trumpet down, Though drunken with the flags that…
Behold that great Plotinus swim, Buffeted by such seas; Bland Rhadamanthus beckons him, But the Golden Race looks dim, Salt blood blocks his eyes.
A PITY beyond all telling Is hid in the heart of love: The folk who are buying and sellin… The clouds on their journey above, The cold wet winds ever blowing,
A BLOODY and a sudden end, Gunshot or a noose, For Death who takes what man woul… Leaves what man would lose. He might have had my sister,