Maude Gonne (1865-1953)
May 11, 1953

A poem by W.B. Yeats.

Forest Hour
July 17, 1935

We said: “The sun’s gone, it is dusk, the full moon tops that giant spruce.” We said: “Our lips launch clouds, the snow’s cold crunch is brittle.” “In dusk’s rinsed blue and moon’s rinsed glacial light this forest hour,” we said, “has the vast dream-stillness of our shadows.” “That delicate swift stipple of wild paws on snow, the ferns asleep, the moss, the sleeping birch and ash, the sleep of chipmunks and the starlings’ sleep!” we said, hushed as the haze of frost. James Daly has had both poetry and prose published in magazines, and has worked in steel mills, taught school, directed and acte

Four Poems By William Faulkner
April 12, 1933

 The Race's Splendor The race's splendor lifts her lip, exposes Amid her scarlet smile her little teeth; The years are sand the wind plays with; beneath The prisoned music of her deathless roses. Within frostbitten rock she's fixed and glassed; Now man may look upon her without fear. But her contemptuous eyes back through him stare And shear his fatuous sheep when he has passed. Lilith she is dead and safely tombed And man may plant and prune with naught to bruit Hie heired and ancient lot to which he's doomed, For quiet drowse the flocks when wolf is mute— Ay, Lilith she is dead, and she is

This Nation
November 09, 1927

Muses and fetishes, particular And patronizing gods, myths and those men That to past darkness have been many a star. Seeing how our encumbered regimen Has all our pride and heart, have given a wide Berth to the corners of our chosen field And left us to our busy heart and pride. Left us the frenzy which we chose for shield. Stretch out no arms, look with no sorry eyes Into their world, we being given to this. Black steel, piled stone and the rigidities That keep you safe your mouth should sweeten to kiss. This nation is a sea bird that, still-born Into the violence of a rising sea, Seems to b

In Ireland
July 07, 1926

To Llewellyn Powys I.

Bell Tower
July 07, 1926

I have seen, O desolate one, the voice has its tower, The voice also, builded at secret cost. Its temple of precious tissue. Not silent, then. Forever.

More Wonder
July 07, 1926

Why is there not a dragon in the sea With orange fins and purple fangs, Of monstrous length and mighty girth, Whose spume and opalescent Jet could be A blazing fright where water clangs Along the coasts of Earth?  Through fire importuning the moon to thrust Its scythe at last to garner flame Cold phoenix throngs could hover. The world should be a ball of golden dust; Each of its creatures then might claim A more resplendent lover.  There could be seed of crystal set adrift To angle space with glassy feather, A boundless comb of light. The re could be hounds and angels, lean and That rushed wit