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| Irish Poetry |
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| 'TIS ALL FOR THEE If life for me hath joy or light, 'Tis all for thee, My thoughts by day, may dreams by night, Are but of thee, of only thee. Whate'er of hope or peace I knoe, My zest in joy, my balm in woe, To those dear eyes of thine I owe, 'Tis all from thee. My heart, ev'n ere I saw those eyes, Seem'd doom'd to thee; Kept pure till then from other ties, 'Twas all for thee, for ohly thee. Like plants that sleep, till sunny May Calls forth their life, may spirit lay, Till touch'd by Love's awad'ning ray, It liv'd for thee, it liv'd for thee. When Fame would call me to her heights, She speaks by thee; And dim would shine her proudest lightsk Unshar'd by thee, unshar'd by thee. Whene'er I seek the Muse's shrine, Where Bards have hung their wreaths divine, An wish those wreaths of glory mine, 'Tis all for thee, for only thee. |
| EXCERPT FROM THE WINGS OF LOVE I will row my boat on Muckross Lake when the gray of the dove comes down at the end of the day; and quiet lik a prayer grows soft in your eyes, and among your fluttering haire the red of the sun is mixed with red of your check I will row you, o boat of my heart! till our mouths have forgotten to speak. In the silence of Love, broken only by trout that spring and are gone, lie a fairy's finger that casts a ring with luck of the world for tha hand that can hold i fast. i will rest my oars, my eyes on your eyes, till our thoughts have passed from the lake and the sky and the rings of the jumpin fish; Till our ears are filled from the reeds with a sudden swish, and sound like the beating of flails in the time of corn. we shall hold our breath while a wonderfun thing is born from the songs that were chanted by bards in the days gone by . . . |
| A DRINKING SONG Wine comes in the mouth And love comes in the eye; That's all we should know for truth Before we grow old and die. I lift the glass to my mouth, I look at you, and sigh. |
| "OH, CALL IT BY SOME BETTER NAME" Oh call it by some better name, For friendship sounds too cold, Wile Love is now a worldly flame, Whose shrine must be of gold; And Passion, like the sun at noon, That burns o'er all he sees, Ahwile as warm, will set as soon Then, call it none of these. Imagine something purer far, More free from stain of clay Then Frindship, Love, or Passion are, Yet human still as they; And if thy lip, for love like this, No mortal word can frame, Go, ask of angels what it is, And call it by the name! |
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