On Roman or on Russian
Or on Spanish politics?
Yet here’s a travelled man that knows
What he talks about,
And there’s a politician
That has read and thought,
And maybe what they say is true
Of war and war’s alarms,
But O that I were young again
And held her in my arms!
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SWIFT has sailed into his rest;
Cannot lacerate his breast.Imitate him if you dare,World-besotted traveller; heServed human liberty.
Edain came out of Midhir’s hill, and lay
Where time is drowned in odour-laden windsAnd Druid moons, and murmuring of boughs,And sleepy boughs, and boughs where apples madeOf opal and ruhy and pale chrysoliteAwake unsleeping fires; and wove seven strings,Sweet with all music, out of his long hair,Because her hands had been made wild by love.When Midhir’s wife had changed her to a…
POUR wine and dance if manhood still have pride,
The cataract smokes upon the mountain side,Our Father Rosicross is in his tomb.Pull down the blinds, bring fiddle and clarionetThat there be no foot silent in the roomNor mouth from kissing, nor from wine unwet;Our Father Rosicross is in his tomb.In vain, in pain; the cataract still cries;The everlasting taper lights the gloom;All wisdom shut…
IF this importunate heart trouble your peace
Or hopes that in mere hoping flicker and cease;Crumple the rose in your hair;And cover your lips with odorous twilight and say,‘O Hearts of wind-blown flame!O Winds, older than changing of night and day,That murmuring and longing cameFrom marble cities loud with tabors of oldIn dove-grey faery lands;From battle-banners, fold upon purple fold,Queens wrought with…
i{Sung by the people of Faery over Diarmuid and Grania,}
WE who are old, old and gay,O so old!Thousands of years, thousands of years,If all were told:Give to these children, new from the world,Silence and love;And the long dew-dropping hours of the night,And the stars above:Give to these children, new from the world,Rest far from men.Is anything better, anything better?Tell us it then:Us who are…
All things uncomely and broken,
The cry of a child by the roadway,The creak of a lumbering cart,The heavy steps of the ploughman,splashing the wintry mould,Are wronging your image that blossomsA rose in the deeps of my heart.The wrong of unshapely thingsIs a wrong too great to be told;I hunger to build them anewAnd sit on a green knoll apart,With…