#IrishWriters
Earth in beauty dressed Awaits returning spring. All true love must die, Alter at the best Into some lesser thing.
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
How should the world be luckier if… Where passion and precision have b… Time out of mind, became too ruino… To breed the lidleSs eye that lov… And the sweet laughing eagle thoug…
Scene: A house made of logs. There are two windows at the back and a door which cuts off one of the corners of the room. Through the door one can see low rocks which make the ground out...
“Put off that mask of burning gold With emerald eyes.” “O no, my dear, you make so bold To find if hearts be wild and wise… And yet not cold.”
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…
HERE at right of the entrance th… Human, superhuman, a bird’s round… Everything else withered and mummy… What great tomb-haunter sweeps the… (Something may linger there though…
Blessed be this place, More blessed still this tower; A bloody, arrogant power Rose out of the race Uttering, mastering it,
ONE had a lovely face, And two or three had charm, But charm and face were in vain Because the mountain grass Cannot but keep the form
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…
O THOUGHT, fly to her when the… Awakens an old memory, and say, ‘Your strength, that is so lofty a… It might call up a new age, callin… The queens that were imagined long…
A certain poet in outlandish cloth… Gathered a crowd in some Byzantin… Talked1 of his country and its peo… To some stringed instrument none t… A wall behind his back, over his h…
THE Roaring Tinker if you like, But Mannion is my name, And I beat up the common sort And think it is no shame. The common breeds the common,
The woods of Arcady are dead, And over is their antique joy; Of old the world on dreaming fed; Grey Truth is now her painted toy… Yet still she turns her restless 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