#IrishWriters
HOW did he live, this dead man he… With the temple above his grave? He lived as a great one, from crad… He was nursed in luxury, trained i… When the wish was born, it was gra…
They brought them up from their hu… The woeful sufferers gaunt and gri… They flocked from the city’s noiso… To the Monarch’s throne to be tou… ‘For his touch,’ they whisper, ‘is…
LOVE was true to me, True and tender; I who ought to be Love’s defender, Let the cold winds blow
LOVE is a plant with double root… And of strange, elastic power: Men’s minds are divided in naming… But a kiss is only the flower.
DEAR islands of the Orient, Where Nature’s first of love was… Sweet hill-tops of the summered la… Where gods and men went hand in ha… In golden days of sinless earth!
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…
MY friend he was; my friend from… With childlike faith he oped to me… No door was locked on altar, grave… No weakness veiled, concealed no d… The hope, the sorrow and the wrong…
Have I no future left me? Is there no struggling ray From the sun of my life outshining Down on my darksome way? Will there no gleam of sunshine
“LOVE is the secret of the world… “The cup we drain and still desire… The loadstone hungers for the stee… Inert amid a million stones, respo… So yearn and answer hearts that tr…
Well, mate, you’ve asked about a f… You met to-day, in a black-and-yel… Chain-gang suit, with a peddler’s… Or with some such burden, strapped… Did you meet him square? No, pass…
I START! I have slept for a mom… I have dreamt, sitting here by her… Oh, how lonely! What was it that… What presence, what heaven-sent ai… It was nothing, you say. But I tr…
A MAN will trust another man, an… His secret thought and act, as if… A woman—does she tell her sins? A… She never knew a woman she could t…
NOT many friends Wish I you; Love makes amends For the few. Slight bonds are best
There are lonesome places upon the… That have never re-echoed a sound… Where the spirits abide that feast… On the shuddering soul of a murder… And take grim delight in the fearf…
Poets should not reason: Let them sing! Argument is treason— Bells should ring. Statements none, nor questions;