A Dream by William Allingham

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On, on, a moving bridge they made

Across the moon-stream, from shade to shade

Young and old, women and men;

Many long-forgot, but remembered then,

And first there came a bitter laughter;

A sound of tears a moment after;

And then a music so lofty and so gay,

That eve morning, day by day,

I strive to recall it if I may

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Ireland by Francis Ledwidge

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I called you by sweet names by wood and linn,

You answered not because my voice was new,

And you were listening for the thousands of Finn

and the long hosts of Lugh.

And so, I came to a windy height

And cried my sorrow, but you heard no wind,

For you were listening to small ships in flight,

And the wall on the hills behind.

And then you called us from far and near

To bring your crown from the deeps of time,

It is my grief your voice I couldn’t hear

In such a distant clime

He wishes for the Cloths of Heaven by W B Yeats

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Had I the heavens’ embroidered cloths,

Enwrought with golden and silver light,

The blue and the dim and the dark cloths

Of night and light and the half-light;

I would spread the cloths under your feet;

But I, being poor, have only my dreams;

I have spread my dreams under your feet;

Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.

Postscript by Seamus Heaney

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And sometime make the time to drive out west

Into County Clare, along the Flaggy Shore,

In September or October, when the wind

And the light are working off each other

So that the ocean on one side is wild

With foam and glitter, and inland among the stones

The surface of the slate-grey lake is lit

By the earthed lightning of a flock of swans,

Their feathers roughed and ruffling, white on white,

Their fully-grown headstrong looking heads

Tucked or cresting or busy underwater.

Useless to think you’ll park and capture it

More thoroughly. You neither here or there,

A hurry through which known and strange things pass

As big soft buffetings come at the car sideways

And catch the heart off guard and blow it open.

 

Irish Poetry

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For Father’s day this year, my oldest son gave me the 23 & Me DNA test so I could trace my roots and ancestry. A part of that has been with held to me most of my life. That part has been revealed and now makes a lot of sense to me.

MY DNA

So, in a tribute to my Irish forefathers and mothers, I want to feature some select Irish poetry. I hope you can appreciate this art as much as I do. A few years ago, a friend of mine, Patrick Mulcahy gave me a book of Irish poetry and I loved it then and even more now. Thanks Pat!

Patrick

 

When You Are Old by W.B. Yeats

When you are old and grey and full of sleep

And nodding by the fire take down this book,

And slowly read, and dream of the soft look

Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep.

 

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, of how Love fled

And paced upon the mountains overhead

And hid his face amid a crowd of stars.

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