#1899 #IrishWriters #TheWindAmongTheReeds
Turning and turning in the widenin… The falcon cannot hear the falcone… Things fall apart; the centre cann… Mere anarchy is loosed upon the wo… The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, a…
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
A strange thing surely that my hea… Upon the Norman upland or in that… Should find no burden but itself a… It could not bear that burden and… The south wind brought it longing,…
‘Never shall a young man, Thrown into despair By those great honey-coloured Ramparts at your ear, Love you for yourself alone
Shy one, shy one, Shy one of my heart, She moves in the firelight Pensively apart. She carries in the dishes,
I– CRAZY JANE AND THE B… Bring me to the blasted oak That I, midnight upon the stroke, (All find safety in the tomb.) May call down curses on his head
Her Courtesy WITH the old kindness, the old d… She lies, her lovely piteous head… Propped upon pillows, rouge on the… She would not have us sad because…
STRETCH towards the moonless mi… As though that hand could reach to… And they but famous old upholsteri… Delightful to the touch; tighten t… As though to draw them closer yet.
I KNOW that I shall meet my fat… 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,
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
There was a man whom Sorrow named… And he, of his high comrade Sorro… Went walking with slow steps along… And humming Sands, where windy su… And he called loudly to the stars…
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.
IF you have revisited the town, t… Whether to look upon your monument (I wonder if the builder has been… Or happier-thoughted when the day… To drink of that salt breath out o…
I bring you with reverent hands The books of my numberless dreams, White woman that passion has worn As the tide wears the dove-grey sa… And with heart more old than the h…
I WOULD that we were, my belove… We tire of the flame of the meteor… And the flame of the blue star of… Has awakened in our hearts, my bel… A weariness comes from those dream…