poets-from-ireland

"When I from life's unrest had earned the grace Of utter ease beside a quiet stream; When all that was had mingled in a dream To eyes awakened out of time and place; Then in the cup of one great moment's space Was crushed the living wine from things that seem; I drank the joy of very Beauty's gleam, And saw God's glory face to shining face.Almost my brow was chastened to the ground, But for an inner Voice that said: "Arise! Wisdom is wisdom only to the wise: Thou art thyself the Royal thou hast crowned: In Beauty thine own beauty thou hast found, And thou hast looked on God with God's own eyes.""

"For sorrow and joy are one, and all the past And all the future mingle in a kiss."

"They said: "She dwelleth in some place apart, Immortal Truth, within whose eyes Who looks may find the secret of the skies And healing for life's smart."I sought Her in loud caverns underground,— On heights where lightnings flashed and fell; I scaled high Heaven; I stormed the gates of Hell, But Her I never foundTill thro' the tumults of my Quest I caught A whisper: "Here, within thy heart, I dwell; for I am thou: behold, thou art The Seeker and the Sought.""

"Beloved, it is morn! A redder berry on the thorn, A deeper yellow on the corn, For this good day new-born."

"Aut lego vel scribo, doceo scrutorve sophiam, obsecro celsithronum nocte dieque meum, vescor, poto libens, rithmizans invoco Musas, dormisco stertens oro Deum vigilans. Conscia mens scelerum deflet peccamina vitae: parcite vos misero, Christe Maria, viro."

"I am the wind on the sea; I am the wave of the sea; I am the stag of seven battles; I am the eagle on the rock I am a flash from the sun; I am the most beautiful of plants; I am a strong wild boar; I am a salmon in the water; I am a lake in the plain; I am the word of knowledge; I am the head of the spear in battle; I am the god that puts fire in the head; Who spreads light in the gathering on the hills? Who can tell the ages of the moon? Who can tell the place where the sun rests?"

"A fat, fair and fifty card-playing resident of the Crescent."

"Right wise it was of our Colm when founding in Iona his famous sixth century school and colony of monks and scholars, he forbade the bringing in of a cow. "Where comes a cow," the wise man laid down, "there follows a woman; and where comes a woman follows trouble.""

"And still I like to fancy that, Somewhere beyond the Styx’s bound, Sir Guy’s tall phantom stoops to pat His little phantom hound!"

"The wind's in the east, But there's green on the larch, And a fairy-tale beast On the uplands' wide arch That gallops and gallops, light pacing, At chasing Of Magic, clean Magic of March."

"I see His blood upon the rose, And in the stars the glory of His eyes; His body gleams amid eternal snows; His tears fall from the skies."

"He was acting as second...to Deane Grady, in a duel between the latter and Counsellor O'Maher. O'Maher's second, during the preliminaries, drew Lysaght's attention to the fact that his pistol was cocked. "Take care, Mr. Lysaght, your pistol is cocked." "Well, then," says Pleasant Ned, "cock yours, and let me take a slap at you, as we are idle.""

"Poetry and pistols, wine and women."

"He sows no vile dissensions; good-will to all he bears; He knows no vain pretensions, no paltry fears or cares; To Erin's and to Britain's sons his worth his name endears; They love the man, who led the van of Irish Volunteers."

"A man of more varied talents than Lysaght it was impossible to meet. In his personal character he was a thorough Irishman—brave, brilliant, witty, eloquent, and devil-may-care. He was a capital song-writer; his poems are full of that indescribable animal buoyancy which is a chief essence of Irish genius. He had a flow of exuberant spirits; his gaiety was like the laugh of matchless Mrs. Nisbett, an infallible cure for the blue devils, a potent destroyer of spleen."

"While he was living in college, there were two sprigs of nobility there, who made themselves ridiculous. These were the two sons of Lord Norbury, the Chief Justice of the Court of Common Pleas. Lord Norbury had married the heiress of the Norwood estates, and while he was serving the office of Attorney-General, he had influence enough to get his wife made Viscountess Norwood in her own right, with remainder to her second son. In the course of time, John Toler, the Attorney-General, was himself raised to the peerage as Lord Norbury, his eldest son, of course, succeeding him in the title. Many were the mistakes about the two Hon. Messrs. Toler; the future Norwood being often confounded with the future Norbury, and vice versa. The thing was more ridiculous, as the Toler family had no aristocratic pretensions. Lysaght, one day meeting the two young, conceited Tolers, in the square of the college, went up to them and said—"Pray tell me which is which? Which of you is Bogberry, and which of you is Bogwood?" The semi-plebeian filii nobiles by no means relished the allusion to bogs."

"Spending faster than it comes, Beating waiters, bailiffs, duns, Bacchus' true-begotten sons, Live the rakes of Mallow."

"Arm of Erin, prove strong, but be gentle as brave, And, uplifted to strike, still be ready to save; Nor one feeling of vengeance presume to defile The cause or the men of the Emerald Isle."

"Pure, just, benign; thus filial love would trace The virtues hallowing this narrow space; The Emerald Isle may grant a wider claim, And link the Patriot with his country's name."

"When Erin first rose from the dark-swelling flood, God blessed the green island, he saw it was good. The Emerald of Europe, it sparkled and shone In the ring of this world, the most precious stone."

"Men of Erin! awake, and make haste to be blest! Rise! arch of the ocean, and queen of the West!"

"Hapless nation, hapless land, Heap of uncementing sand! Crumbled by a foreign weight, Or by worse, domestic hate!"

"Not she with trait'rous kiss her Saviour stung, Not she denied him with unholy tongue; She, while apostles shrank, could danger brave, Last at his cross, and earliest at his grave."

"Ireland is a country that has two literatures—one a literature in ——that has been cultivated continuously since the eighth century, and the other a literature in English—Anglo-Irish literature—that took its rise in the eighteenth century. Anglo-Irish literature begins, as an English critic has observed, with Goldsmith and Sheridan humming some urban song as they stroll down an English laneway. That is, it begins chronically in that way. At the time when Goldsmith and Sheridan might be supposed to be strolling down English laneways, Ireland, for all but a fraction of the people, was a Gaelic-speaking country with a poetry that had many centuries of cultivation."

"The speech of the Irish country-people is fine material for the dramatist, and the Irish dramatists have made good use of it. 's dialogue reproduces the energy and the extravagance of the people's speech— ..."

"The editor is seated with a countrywoman at the door of her cottage in an isolated place. Three young girls on their way to a dance come along. They adjust their head-shawls, showing off a little. "They are pretty girls," the editor says to the householder. "If they were hanged for their beauty, they'd die innocent," is her reply. This is a real piece of wit. She did not want to contradict one who is her guest. He has shown, however, that his standard of beauty leaves something to be desired. Her judgment of the beauty under consideration is reasonable, but the expression of it is imaginative. When one puts imagination at the service of criticism, the result is apt to be a piece of malice, and Irish wit is often malicious. An illustration in a Dublin journal shows two farmers seated on a boundary fence. "I don't see a gap in the moon tonight," one says; and the other answers, "If you did you could let your cows in through it." This strikes at the farmer who would save forage by letting his cows into his neighbor's field through a gapped fence."

"... a devout man with a great love of the earth. He has also a fine sense of the traditional ballad."

"Farewell Tasmania's isle! I bid adieu The possum and the kangaroo. Farmers' Glory! Prisoners' Hell! Land of Buggers! Fare ye well."

"My name is Frank MacNamara, A native of Cashell, County Tipperary, Sworn to be a tyrant's foe And while I've life I'll crow."

"Captain Murray, if you please, Make it hours instead of days, You know, it becomes an Irishman To drown the shamrock when he can."

"But she, like sighing forests, Stole on me—full of rest, Her hair was like the sea's wave, Whiteness was in her breast,— (So does one come, at night, upon a wall of roses.)"

"She comes not when Noon is on the roses— Too bright is Day. She comes not to the Soul till it reposes From work and play. But when Night is on the hills, and the great Voices Roll in from Sea, By starlight and by candlelight and dreamlight She comes to me."

"O dreamy, gloomy, friendly Trees, ... Ye, vastest breathers of the air, Shook down with slow and mighty poise Your coolness on the human care, Your wonder on its toys, Your greenness on the heart's despair, Your darkness on its noise."

"Come, let us make love deathless, thou and I, Seeing that our footing on the Earth is brief— Seeing that her multitudes sweep out to die Mocking at all that passes their belief."

"Men that had seen her Drank deep and were silent, The women were speaking Wherever she went, As a bell that is rung Or a wonder told shyly, And O she was the Sunday In every week."

"In contrast to how a child belongs in the world, adult belonging is never as natural, innocent, or playful. Adult belonging has to be chosen, received, and renewed. It is a lifetime's work."

"It is ironic that so often we continue to live like paupers though our inheritance of spirit is so vast."

"One of the great modern philosophers of beauty, Immanuel Kant, spoke of the joy we take in the Beautiful as 'disinterested delight'. The animation of the Beautiful is so immediate and fulfilling that we simply enjoy it for itself; it never occurs to us to ask what purpose it serves."

"We were created to be creators."

"Of all the stages in a woman’s life, none is so dangerous as the period between her acknowledgment of a passion for a man, and the day set apart for her nuptials."

"Your people of refined sentiments are the most troublesome creatures in the world to deal with."

"The Holy See encourages the peaceful resolution of disputes. So the Holy See is a voice of conscience that we want to relate to at a diplomatic level. Also, the Holy See is a great source of insight on particular situations if you want to understand what's happening in certain parts of the world. The Holy See, because of the presence of the Church on the ground, often has a particularly fine understanding."

"Child in thy beauty; empress in thy pride; Sweet and unyielding as the summer's tide; Starlike to tremble, starlike to abide.Guiltless of wounding, yet more true than steel; Gem-like thy light to flash and to conceal; Tortoise to bear, insect to see and feel.Blushing and shy, yet dread we thy disdain; Smiling, a sunbeam fraught with hints of rain; Trilling love-notes to freedom's fierce refrain.The days are fresh, the hours are wild and sweet, When spring and winter, dawn and darkness meet; Nymph, with one welcome, thee and these we greet."

"In the Valley of Shanganagh, where the songs of skylarks teem, And the rose perfumes the ocean-breeze, as love the hero's dream, 'Twas there I wooed my Maggie. In her dark eyes there did dwell A secret that the billows knew, but yet could never tell.Oh! light as fairy tread her voice fell on my bounding heart; And like the wild bee to the flower still clinging we would part. "Sweet valley of Shanganagh," then I murmured, "though I die, My soul will never leave thee for the heaven that's in the sky!"In the Valley of Shanganagh, where the sullen seagulls gleam, And the pine-scent fills the sighing breeze as death the lover's dream, 'Twas there I lost my Maggie. Why that fate upon us fell The powers above us knew, perhaps, if only they would tell.Oh! like the tread of mournful feet it fell upon my heart, When, as the wild bee leaves the rose, her spirit did depart. In the Valley still I linger, though it's fain I am to die, But it's hard to find a far-off heaven when clouds are in the sky."

"Why dost thou like a Roman vestal make The whole long year unmarriageable May, And, like the phoenix, no companion take To share the wasteful burthen of decay? See this rich climate, where the airs that blow Are heavenly suspirings, and the skies Steep day from head to heel in summer glow, And moons make mellow mornings as they rise; As brides white-veiled that come to marry earth, Now each mist-morning sweet July attires, Now moon-night mists are not of earthly birth, But silver smoke blown down from heavenly fires. Skies kiss the earth, clouds join the land and sea, All Nature marries, only thou art free."

"Know that the age of Pyrrha is long passed, And though thy form is eternized in stone, The sculptor’s doings cannot Time outlast, Nor Beauty live save but in blood and bone; Though new Pygmalions should again arise Idolatrous of images like thee, Time the iconoclast e’en stone destroys, As steadfast rocks are splintered by the sea. Thou shouldst indeed a hamadryad be, Inhabiting some knotted oak alone, And so revive the worship of the Tree Which, by succession, outlives barren stone. Though thus transformed still worshippers would woo, As Daphne-laurels poets yet pursue."

"O what an eve was that which ushered in The night that crowned the wish I cherished long! Heaven’s curtains oped to see the night begin, And infant winds broke lightly into song; Methought the hours in softly-swelling sound Wailed funeral dirges for the dying light; I seemed to stand upon a neutral ground Between the confines of the day and night; For o’er the east Night stretched her sable rod, And ranked her stars in glittering array, While, in the west, the golden twilight trod With [burning] crimsons on the verge of day. Bright bars of cloud formed in the glowing even A Jacob-ladder joining earth and heaven."

"The rude rebuffs of bay-besieging winds But make the anchored ships towards them turn, So thy unkindness unto me but finds My love tow’rds thee with keener ardour burn; As myrrh incised bleeds odoriferous gum, I am become a poet through my wrong, For through the sad-mouthed heart-wounds in me come These earthly echoes of celestial song. My thoughts as birds make flutter in my heart, Poor muffled choristers! whose sad refrain Gives sorrow sleep, and bids that woe depart Whose heavy burden weighs upon my strain. Imprisoned larks pipe sweeter than when free, And I, enslaved, have learnt to sing for thee."

"I make not my division of the hours By dials, clocks, or waking birds’ acclaim, Nor measure seasons by the reigning flowers, The spring’s green glories, or the autumn’s flame. To me thy absence winter is, and night, Thy presence spring, and the meridian day. From thee I draw my darkness and my light, Now swart eclipse, now more than heavenly ray. Thy coming warmeth all my soul like fire, And through my heartstrings melodies do run, As poets fabled the Memnonian lyre Hymned acclamation to the rising sun. My heart hums music in thy influence set: So winds put harps Aeolian on the fret."

"Thy throne is ringed by amorous cavaliers, And all the air is heavy with the sound Of tiptoe compliment, whilst anxious fears Strike dumb the lesser satellites around. One clasps thy hand, another squires thy chair, Some bask in light shed from the eyes of thee, Some taste the perfume shaken from thy hair, Some watch afar their worshipped deity. All have their orbits, and due distance keep, As round the sun concentric planets move; Smiles light yon lord, whilst I, at distance, weep In the sad twilight of uncertain love. ’Thwart thee, my sun, how many a mincer slips, Whose constant transits make for me eclipse."