#Irish #NobelPrize #XIXCentury #XXCentury #1889 #TheWanderingsOfOisinAndOtherPoems
The light of evening, Lissadell, Great windows open to the south, Two girls in silk kimonos, both Beautiful, one a gazelle. But a raving autumn shears
I THINK it better that in times… A poet’s mouth be silent, for in t… We have no gift to set a statesman… He has had enough of meddling who… A young girl in the indolence of h…
I AM tired of cursing the Bishop… (Said Crazy Jane) Nine books or nine hats Would not make him a man. I have found something worse
A moonlight moor. Fairies lead… Male Fairies: Do not fear us, ear… We will lead you hand in hand By the willows in the glade, By the gorse on the high land,
Come, let me sing into your ear; Those dancing days are gone, All that silk and satin gear; Crouch upon a stone, Wrapping that foul body up
On Cruachan’s plain slept he That must sing in a rhyme What most could shake his soul: ‘The stallion Eternity Mounted the mare of Time,
Hic. ON the grey sand beside the… Under your old wind-beaten tower,… A lamp burns on beside the open bo… That Michael Robartes left, you w… And though you have passed the bes…
You gave, but will not give again Until enough of paudeen’s pence By Biddy’s halfpennies have lain To be 'some sort of evidence’, Before you’ll put your guineas dow…
I went out alone To sing a song or two, My fancy on a man, And you know who. Another came in sight
I hear the Shadowy Horses, their… Their hoofs heavy with tumult, the… The North unfolds above them clin… The East her hidden joy before th… The West weeps in pale dew and si…
I meditate upon a swallow’s flight… Upon a aged woman and her house, A sycamore and lime-tree lost in n… Although that western cloud is lum… Great works constructed there in n…
The heron-billed pale cattle-birds That feed on some foul parasite Of the Moroccan flocks and herds Cross the narrow Straits to light In the rich midnight of the garden…
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
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…
Sickness brought me this Thought, in that scale of his: Why should I be dismayed Though flame had burned the whole World, as it were a coal,