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Hace 3 días · Irish literature, the body of written works produced in Ireland or by Irish writers. This article discusses Irish literature written in English from about 1690; its history is closely linked with that of English literature. Irish-language literature is discussed in Celtic literature.. The hybridity of Irish literature in English. After the literatures of Greek and Latin, literature in Irish is ...
Hace 1 día · How many loved your moments of glad grace, And loved your beauty with love false or true, But one man loved the pilgrim Soul in you, And loved the sorrows of your changing face; And bending down beside the glowing bars, Murmur, a little sadly, how Love fled. And paced upon the mountains overhead. And hid his face amid a crowd of stars.
Hace 4 días · All his happier dreams came true -. A small old house, wife, daughter, son, Grounds where plum and cabbage grew, poets and Wits about him drew; 'What then.?' sang Plato's ghost. 'What then?'. The work is done,' grown old he thought, 'According to my boyish plan; Let the fools rage, I swerved in naught,
Hace 3 días · You that would judge me, do not judge alone. This book or that, come to this hallowed place. Where my friends' portraits hang and look thereon; Ireland's history in their lineaments trace; Think where man's glory most begins and ends, And say my glory was I had such friends. William Butler Yeats.
25 de may. de 2024 · In Drumcliff churchyard Yeats is laid. By the road an ancient cross. On life, on death. Horseman, pass by! I Swear by what the sages spoke Round the Mareotic Lake That the Witch of Atlas knew, Spoke and set the cocks a-crow. Swear by those horsemen, by those women.
16 de may. de 2024 · And the moon spun round like a top, And the nearest kin of the moon, The creeping cat, looked up. Black Minnaloushe stared at the moon, For, wander and wail as he would, The pure cold light in the sky. Troubled his animal blood. Minnaloushe runs in the grass. Lifting his delicate feet.
Hace 4 días · Ephemera. Because our love is waning.'. When the poor tired child, passion, falls asleep. Is our first kiss, and ah, how old my heart !'. 'Passion has often worn our wandering hearts.'. In bosom and hair. Hate on and love through unrepining hours. Are love, and a continual farewell .'. 'Your eyes that once were never weary of mine Are bowed in ...
