Mark it, Cesario, it is old and plain; The spinsters and the knitters in the sun, And the free maids, that weave their thread with bones Do use to chant it. It is silly, sooth,...
O me, my pleasant rambles by the lake, My sweet, wild, fresh three-quarters of a year, My one Oasis in the dust and drouth Of city life! I was a sketcher then: See here, my doing: curves of mountain, bridge,...
No matter what I say, All that I really love Is the rain that flattens on the bay, And the eel-grass in the cove; The jingle-shells that lie and bleach At the tide-line, and the trace...
E'en the fair orb on which I gaze Suggests thy radiance by its rays: That silvery, soft, and dreamy light, So soft, and yet so beauteous bright, Falling in glowing tints so faint, -...
Infinite gentleness, infinite irony Are in this face with fast-sealed eyes, And round this mouth that learned in loneliness How useless their wisdom is to the wise. ...
Ah, little did I think in time that's past, By summer burnt, or numb'd by winter's blast, Delving the ditch a livelihood to earn, Or lumping corn out in a dusty barn;...
Here in a distant place I hold my tongue; I am O'Rahilly: When I was young, Who now am young no more, I did not eat things picked up from the shore. The periwinkle, and the tough dogfish...
Hic. On the grey sand beside the shallow stream Under your old wind-beaten tower, where still A lamp burns on beside the open book That Michael Robartes left, you walk in the moon...
If Fate should seal my Death to-morrow, (Though much I hope she will postpone it,) I've held a share Joy and Sorrow, Enough for Ten; and here I own it.
Grim is the face that looks into the night Over the stretch of sands; A sullen rock in the sea of white-- A ghostly shadow in ghostly light, Peering and moaning it stands....
The air is charged with amatory numbers Soft madrigals, and dreamy lovers' lays. Peace, peace, old heart! Why waken from its slumbers The aching memory of the old, old days? ...
The white moth-mullein brushed its slim Cool, faery flowers against his knee; In places where the way lay dim The branches, arching suddenly, Made tomblike mystery for him. ...
Ah! grown a dim and fairy shade, Dear child, who, fifteen years ago, Out of our arms escaped and fled With swift white feet, as if afraid, To hide beneath the grass, the snow, that sunny little head....
I hear no footfall beating through the dark, A lonely gust is loitering at the pane; There is no sound within these forests stark Beyond a splash or two of sullen rain; ...