#Irish #NobelPrize #XIXCentury #XXCentury
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 fragrance.
THE old brown thorn-trees break in two… Under a bitter black wind that blows fro… Our courage breaks like an old tree in a… But we have hidden in our hearts the fla… Of Cathleen, the daughter of Houlihan.
I wander by the edge Of this desolate lake Where wind cries in the sedge: Until the axle break That keeps the stars in their round,
#1899 #TheWindAmongTheReeds
THIS great purple butterfly, In the prison of my hands, Has a learning in his eye Not a poor fool understands. Once he lived a schoolmaster
I KNOW that I shall meet my fate Somewhere among the clouds above; Those that I fight I do not hate, Those that I guard I do not love; My county is Kiltartan Cross,
Overcome—O bitter sweetness, Inhabitant of the soft cheek of a girl— The rich man and his affairs, The fat flocks and the fields’ fatness, Mariners, rough harvesters;
A man came slowly from the setting sun, To Emer, raddling raiment in her dun, And said, “I am that swineherd whom you… Go watch the road between the wood and t… But now I have no need to watch it more…
I met the Bishop on the road And much said he and I. ‘Those breasts are flat and fallen now, Those veins must soon be dry; Live in a heavenly mansion,
Good Father John O’Hart In penal days rode out To a Shoneen who had free lands And his own snipe and trout. In trust took he John’s lands;
#1889 #TheWanderingsOfOisinAndOtherPoems
O women, kneeling by your altar-rails lo… When songs I wove for my beloved hide t… And smoke from this dead heart drifts th… And covers away the smoke of myrrh and f… Bend down and pray for all that sin I w…
I WHISPERED, ‘I am too young,’ And then, 'I am old enough’; Wherefore I threw a penny To find out if I might love. ‘Go and love, go and love, young man,
A PITY beyond all telling Is hid in the heart of love: The folk who are buying and selling, The clouds on their journey above, The cold wet winds ever blowing,
Although you hide in the ebb and flow Of the pale tide when the moon has set, The people of coming days will know About the casting out of my net, And how you have leaped times out of min…
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