#1928 #IrishWriters #TheTower
Come play with me; Why should you run Through the shaking tree As though I’d a gun To strike you dead?
Far-Off, most secret, and inviola… Enfold me in my hour of hours; whe… Who sought thee in the Holy Sepul… Or in the wine-vat, dwell beyond t… And tumult of defeated dreams; and…
BIRD sighs for the air, Thought for I know not where, For the womb the seed sighs. Now sinks the same rest On mind, on nest,
(For Harry Clifton) I HAVE heard that hysterical wom… They are sick of the palette and f… Of poets that are always gay, For everybody knows or else should…
THIS night has been so strange t… As if the hair stood up on my head… From going-down of the sun I have… That women laughing, or timid or w… In rustle of lace or silken stuff,
When you are old and grey and full… And nodding by the fire, take down… And slowly read, and dream of the… Your eyes had once, and of their s… How many loved your moments of gla…
I did the dragon’s will until you… Because I had fancied love a casu… Improvisation, or a settled game That followed if I let the kerchi… Those deeds were best that gave th…
SHE might, so noble from head To great shapely knees, The long flowing line, Have walked to the altar Through the holy images
ALTHOUGH I shelter from the ra… Under a broken tree My chair was nearest to the fire In every company That talked of love or politics,
YOU think it horrible that lust a… Should dance attention upon my old… They were not such a plague when… What else have I to spur me into…
SADDLE and ride, I heard a man… Out of Ben Bulben and Knocknarea… i{What says the Clock in the Grea… All those tragic characters ride But turn from Rosses’ crawling ti…
Hidden by old age awhile In masker’s cloak and hood, Each hating what the other loved, Face to face we stood: ‘That I have met with such,’ said…
Autumn is over the long leaves tha… And over the mice in the barley sh… Yellow the leaves of the rowan abo… And yellow the wet wild-strawberry… The hour of the waning of love has…
Crazed through much child-bearing The moon is staggering in the sky; Moon-struck by the despairing Glances of her wandering eye We grope, and grope in vain,