O heart the winds have shaken, the unappeasable host Is comelier than candles at Mother Mary's feet.

How could passion run so deep Had I never thought That the crime of being born Blackens all our lot?

Wine enters through the mouth, Love, the eyes. I raise the glass to my mouth, I look at you, I sigh.

It is so many years before one can believe enough in what one feels even to know what the feeling is

When I clamber to the heights of sleep, Or when I grow excited with wine, suddenly I meet your face.

Once more the storm is howling, and half hid Under this cradle-hood and coverlid My child sleeps on.

How can I, that girl standing there, My attention fix On Roman or on Russian Or on Spanish politics?

It's certain there are trout somewhere - And maybe I shall take a trout - but I do not seem to care.

Maybe the bride-bed brings despair, For each an imagined image brings And finds a real image there...

No art can conquer the people alone-the people are conquered by an ideal of life upheld by authority.

For men were born to pray and save: Romantic Ireland's dead and gone, It's with O'Leary in the grave.

Death and life were not Till man made up the whole, Made lock, stock and barrel Out of his bitter soul

Being Irish, he had an abiding sense of tragedy, which sustained him through temporary periods of joy.

The light of lights looks always on the motive, not the deed, the shadow of shadows on the deed alone.

A man in his own secret meditation / Is lost amid the labyrinth that he has made / In art or politics.

If there's no hatred in a mind Assault and battery of the wind Can never tear the linnet from the leaf

I kiss you and kiss you, With arms around my own, Ah, how shall I miss you, When, dear, you have grown.

Though pedantry denies, It's plain the Bible means That Solomon grew wise While talking with his queens.

Land of Heart's Desire Where beauty has no ebb, decay no flood, But joy is wisdom, time an endless song.

O would, beloved, that you lay Under the dock-leaves in the ground, While lights were paling one by one.

Sweetheart, do not love too long: I loved long and long, And grew to be out of fashion Like an old song.

Civilisation is hooped together, brought Under a rule, under the semblance of peace By manifold illusion.

Nothing but stillness can remain when hearts are full Of their own sweetness, bodies of their loveliness.

People who lean on logic and philosophy and rational exposition end by starving the best part of the mind.

I would that I were an old beggar Rolling a blind pearl eye, For he cannot see my lady Go gallivanting by.

I--love's skein upon the ground, My body in the tomb-- Shall leap into the light lost In my mother's womb.

Englishmen are babes in philosophy and so prefer faction-fighting to the labour of its unfamiliar thought.

Yet they that know all things but know That all this life can give us is A child's laughter, a woman's kiss.

And when you sigh from kiss to kiss I hear white Beauty sighing, too, For hours when all must fade like dew.

Neither Christ nor Buddha nor Socrates wrote a book, for to do so is to exchange life for a logical process.

All that could run or leap or swim Whether in wood, water or cloud, Acclaiming, proclaiming, declaiming Him.

My chair was nearest to the fire In every company That talked of love or politics, Ere Time transfigured me.

To be born woman is to know - although they do not speak of it at school - women must labor to be beautiful.

I thought of rhyme alone, For rhyme can beat a measure out of trouble And make the daylight sweet once more.

The common breeds the common, A lout begets a lout, So when I take on half a score I knock their heads about.

All men live in suffering I know as few can know, Whether they take the upper road Or stay content on the low.

The women take so little stock In what I do or say They'd sooner leave their cosseting To hear a jackass bray.

Why should the imagination of a man Long past his prime remember things that are Emblematical of love and war?

. . . you may think I waste my breath Pretending that there can be passion That has more life in it than death

This great purple butterfly, In the prison of my hands, Has a learning in his eye Not a poor fool understands.

And many a poor man that has roved Loved and thought himself beloved From a glad kindness cannot take his eyes.

Hearts with one purpose alone/Through summer and winter seem/Enchanted to a stone/To trouble the living stream.

Come swish around my pretty punk And keep me dancing still That I may stay a sober man Although I drink my fill.

I have no question: It is enough, I know what fixed the station Of star and cloud. And knowing all, I cry. . . .

Time can but make it easier to be wise / Though now it seems impossible, and so / All that you need is patience.

I have heard that hysterical women say They are sick of the palette and fiddle-bow, Of poets that are always gay

I will arise and go now, for always night and day I hear lake water lapping...I hear it in the deep heart's core.

He Who is wrapped in purple robes, With planets in His care, Had pity on the least of things Asleep upon a chair.

But stories that live longest Are sung above the glass, And Parnell loved his country And Parnell loved his lass.

I weave the shoes of Sorrow: Soundless shall be the footfall light In all men's ears of Sorrow, Sudden and light.

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