#Irish
To Meath of the pastures, From wet hills by the sea, Through Leitrim and Longford Go my cattle and me. I hear in the darkness
I THINK some saint of Eirinn wa… Found you and brought you here De… For so I greet you in this alien… And like those maidens who were on… In their own land as daughters of…
Sunset and silence! A man: around… Beside him two horses—a plough! Earth savage, earth broken, the br… And the Plough that is twin to th… “Brute-tamer, plough-maker, earth-…
THE fiddles were playing and play… The couples were out on the floor; From converse and dancing he drew… And across the door. Ah! strange were the dim, wide mea…
I AM the Toy-maker; I have broug… As much in my plack as should fetc… I’ll array for you now my stock of… And man’s the raree will show you. Here’s a horse that is rearing to…
You stay for a while beside me wit… Though your light limbs are as lim… Brow fair and young and tender whe… Hair bright as the breast of the e… In the space of a broken castle I…
O, to have a little house! To own the hearth and stool and al… The heaped up sods against the fir… The pile of turf against the wall! To have a clock with weights and c…
O men from the fields, Come gently within. Tread softly, softly O men coming in! Mavourneen is going
NOT as a woman of the English we… English Do I weep— A cry that scarcely stirs the hear… I lament as it is in my blood to l…
THE little moths are creeping Across the cottage pane; On the floor the chickens gather, And they make talk and complain. And she sits by the fire
MOULD-COLOURED like the leaf… The autumn branch, he rises now, t… The cold eyes of the gannets see t… He has No-whither. Who was it mar… Earth from the waters? Who
NOT fingers that e’er felt Fine things within their hold Drew needles in and through, And smoothed out the fold, And put the hodden patch
WHY do I look for fire to brand… What do I need, when all within i… And lo, she comes, carrying the li… And branding tool—she who is my de… What need have I for what is in h…
FOR the poor body that I own I could weep many a tear: The days have stolen flesh and bon… And left a changeling here. Four feeble bones are left to me,
Of the Irish, Paris THE Lombards having gone back to… We, who might never flock to nativ… Except like birds that fly like fu… Desperately, in a wind across the…