By W. B. Yeats
In 1895 the thirty-year-old W.B. Yeats, already confirmed as one in all Ireland's best poets and folklorists, released this awesome choice of Irish verse as a part of his crusade to set up a practice of Irish poetry healthy for the sunrise of a brand new age in Ireland's historical past. This Routledge Classics version, entire with a specifically commissioned advent through acclaimed author and critic John Banville, is key examining for all who get pleasure from solid literature.
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Over dews, over sands, Will I ﬂy for your weal: Your holy, delicate white hands Shall girdle me with steel. At home, in your emerald bowers, From morning’s dawn till e’en, You’ll pray for me, my ﬂower of ﬂowers, My Dark Rosaleen! My fond Rosaleen! You’ll think of me through daylight’s hours, My virgin ﬂower, my ﬂower of ﬂowers, My Dark Rosaleen! I could scale the blue air, I could plough the high hills, 19 20 james clarence mangan O, I could kneel all night in prayer, To heal your many ills. And one beamy smile from you Would ﬂoat like light between My toils and me, my own, my true, My Dark Rosaleen!
Theirs were not souls wherein dull Time Could domicile Decay or house Decrepitude! lament for the princes of tyrone and tyrconnell They passed from Earth ere Manhood’s prime, Ere years had power to dim their brows Or chill their blood. And who can marvel o’er thy grief, Or who can blame thy ﬂowing tears, That knows their source? O’Donnell, Dunnasava’s chief, Cut oﬀ amid his vernal years, Lies here a corse Beside his brother Cathbar, whom Tirconnell of the Helmets mourns In deep despair— For valour, truth, and comely bloom, For all that greatens and adorns A peerless pair.
Who, as friend only met, Soggarth aroon, Never did ﬂout me yet, Soggarth aroon? And when my heart was dim, Gave, while his eye did brim, What I should give to him, Soggarth aroon? Och! you, and only you, Soggarth aroon! And for this I was true to you, Soggarth aroon, In love they’ll never shake, When for old Ireland’s sake, We a true part did take, Soggarth aroon! John Banim 17 18 james clarence mangan DARK ROSALEEN From the Irish O my Dark Rosaleen, Do not sigh, do not weep! The priests are on the ocean green.
A Book of Irish Verse by W. B. Yeats