There’s no man may look upon her, no man,
As when newly grown to be a woman,
Tall and noble but with face and bosom
Delicate in colour as apple blossom.
This beauty’s kinder, yet for a reason
I could weep that the old is out of season.
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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…
I KNOW that I shall meet my fate
Those that I fight I do not hate,Those that I guard I do not love;My county is Kiltartan Cross,My countrymen Kiltartan’s poor,No likely end could bring them lossOr leave them happier than before.Nor law, nor duty bade me fight,Nor public men, nor cheering crowds,A lonely impulse of delightDrove to this tumult in the clouds;I balanced…
SELECTED FROM THE IRISH NOVELISTS
When her own people ruled this tragic Eire;And from its murmuring greenness, calm of Faery,A Druid kindness, on all hearers fell.It charmed away the merchant from his guile,And turned the farmer’s memory from his cattle,And hushed in sleep the roaring ranks of battle:And all grew friendly for a little while.Ah, Exiles wandering over lands and…
What lively lad most pleasured me
I answer that I gave my soulAnd loved in misery,But had great pleasure with a ladThat I loved bodily.Flinging from his arms I laughedTo think his passion suchHe fancied that I gave a soulDid but our bodies touch,And laughed upon his breast to thinkBeast gave beast as much.I gave what other women gaveThat stepped out…
O SWEET everlasting Voices, be still;
And bid them wander obeying your will,Flame under flame, till Time be no more;Have you not heard that our hearts are old,That you call in birds, in wind on the hill,In shaken boughs, in tide on the shore?O sweet everlasting Voices, be still.
COME round me, little childer;
Because I mutter as I go;But pity Moll Magee.My man was a poor fisherWith shore lines in the say;My work was saltin’ herringsThe whole of the long day.And sometimes from the Saltin’ shedI scarce could drag my feet,Under the blessed moonlight,Along thc pebbly street.I’d always been but weakly,And my baby was just born;A neighbour minded…