#IrishWriters
“AND Smith has made money?” “O, no; that’s a myth: Smith never made money But money made Smith!” A sculptor is Deming—a great man,…
AS grains from chaff, I sift thes… Kernels of wisdom, from the husks… Benevolence befits the wisest mind… But he who has not studied to be k… Who grants for asking, gives witho…
NOW, for the faith that is in ye, Polander, Sclav, and Kelt! Prove to the world what the lips h… The hearts have grandly felt. Rouse, ye races in shackles!
A GOD-LIKE face, with human lo… And tender fancy traced in every l… A god-like face, but oh, how human… Dear Keats, who love the gods the…
HE was old and alone, and he sat… His beard was white, and his eye w… With a mild content at the way lif… ‘I will venture a look in this liv… And I said: ‘ My friend, have you…
FOR every sin that comes before t… And leaves an outward blemish on t… How many, darker, cower out of sig… And burrow, blind and silent, like… And like the mole, too, with its b…
HER hair was a waving bronze, and… Deep wells that might cover a broo… And who, till he weighed it, could… That her heart was a cinder instea…
GOD makes a poet: touches soul an… And lips and heart, and sends him… His fellows hearing, own the true… And crown him daily with the love… The king a lord makes, by a parchm…
THUNDER of guns, and cries—bann… Troops have died where they stood… They have raced like waves at a wa… Dawn the fight begin, and noon was… The armies stretch afar—and the pl…
Trapper died—our hero—and we griev… In every heart in camp the sorrow… “His soul was red!” the Indian cr… “A white man, he!” the grim old Y… So, brief and strong, each mourner…
DEAR honored name, beloved for h… But loved and honored first that… In living proof to erring mortal e… That our poor earth is near akin t… Sweet word of dual meaning: one of…
IN the Spring we see: Then the buds are dear to us—immat… In the Summer we live: When bright eyes are near to us, o… In the Autumn we love:
DEAD, with his harness on him: Rigid and cold and white, Marking the place of the vanguard Still in the ancient fight. The climber dead on the hill-side,
The bees are in the meadow And the swallows in the sky; The cattle in the shadow Watch the river running by. The wheat is hardly stirring;
A LEGEND OF THE BUSH. MY tale which I have brought is o… Ere that fair Southern land was s… Brought thitherward in reeking shi… Like blight upon the coast, or lik…