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Irish Internet Radio and TV from Dublin, Ireland.

Song

by Thomas Moore
the greatest Irish lyrist
born Dublin, 1779 - died 1852
Have you not seen the timid tear
Steal trembling from mine eye?
Have you not mark'd the flush of fear,
Or caught the murmur'd sigh?
And can you think my love is chill,
Nor fix'd on you alone?
And can you rend, by doubting still,
A heart so much your own?

To you my soul's affections move
Devoutly, warmly, true:
My life has been a task of love,
One long, long thought of you.
If all your tender faith is o'er,
If still my truth you'll try;
Alas! I know but one proof more -
I'll bless your name, and die!

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For our poetry lovers, here are the lyrics to a really beautiful Irish song about one of the 1916 heroes, Joseph Plunkett. Hours before his execution by firing squad at the age of 28, he was married in the prison chapel to his sweetheart Grace Gifford, a Protestant convert to Catholicism. I have been in that little chapel.


Grace

As we gathered in the chapel here, in old Kilmainham Jail
I think about these last few weeks, oh will they say we've failed
From our school days they have taught us, we must yearn for liberty
But all I want in this dark place is to have you here with me


Oh Grace just hold me in your arms and let this moment linger
They take me out at dawn and I will die
With all my love I'll place this wedding ring upon your finger
There won't be time to share our love, for we must say good-bye


Though I know it's hard for you my love, to ever understand,
The love I feel for this great man, my love for this dear land,
But when Padraig called me to his side down at the GPO,
I had to leave my own sick bed, to him I had to go


Now as the dawn is breaking, my heart is breaking to,
On this May morn, as I walk out my thoughts will be of you,
And I'll write some words upon the wall so everyone will know,
I loved so much, that I could see His blood upon the Rose
Deragon

The title of this song is, simply, Grace. Paddy Reilly did a recording of this song. I'll ask Simon to play it today.
St. Patrick's day is coming. A cause for joy and great craic. Easter is coming, too, and for Christians a wondrous promise of new life -- the Resurrection. Easter is a little more special, maybe, for the Irish. In 1916, on Easter Monday, an incredible group of Irish patriots made a stand that the whole world wondered at. About freedom. Allow me to share another poem by Yeats that recalls what happened when just a few Irish men and women took on the greatest army known at that time.

Easter, 1916
By W. B. Yeats

I have met them at the close of the day
Coming with vivid faces
From counter or desk among grey
Eighteenth-century houses.
I have passed with a nod of the head
Or polite meaningless words,
Or have lingered awhile and said
Polite meaningless words,
And thought before I had done
Of a mocking tale or a gibe
To please a companion
Around the fire at the club
Being certain that they and I
But lived where motley is worn:
All changed, changed utterly:
A terrible beauty is born.


That woman's days were spent
In ignorant good-will,
Her nights in argument
Until her voice grew shrill.
What voice more sweet than hers
When, young and beautiful,
She rode to harriers?
This man had kept a school
And rode our winged horse;
This other his helper and friend
Was coming into his force;
He might have won fame in the end,
So sensitive his nature seemed,
So daring and sweet his thought.


This other man I had dreamed
A drunken, vainglorious lout.
He had done most bitter wrong
To some who are near my heart,
Yet I know him in the song;
He, too, has resigned his part
In the casual comedy;
He, too, has been changed in his turn,
Transformed utterly:
A terrible beauty is born.


Hearts with one purpose alone
Through summer and winter seem
Enchanted to a stone
To trouble the living stream.
The horse that comes from the road,
The rider, the birds that range
From cloud to tumbling cloud,
Minute by minute they change;
A shadow of cloud on the stream
Changes minute by minute,
A horse-hoof slides on the brim,
And a horse plashes within it;
The long-legged moor-hens dive,
And hens to moor-cocks call;
Minute by minute they live:
The stone's in the midst of all.


Too long a sacrifice
Can make a stone of the heart.
O when may it suffice?
That is Heaven's part, our part
To murmur name upon name,
As a mother names her child
When sleep at last has come
On limbs that had run wild.
What is it but nightfall?
No, no, not night but death;
Was it needless death after all?


For England may keep faith
For all that is done and said.
We know their dream; enough
To know they dreamed and are dead;
And what if excess of love
Bewildered them till they died?
I write it in a verse --
Macdonagh and MacBride
And Connolly and Pearse
Now and in time to be,
Wherever green is worn,
Are changed, changed utterly:
A terrible beauty is born.

September 25, 1916
Frank,
One of my favourite Yeats’ poems. Great of you to put it on display for all of us to read again. ‘A terrible beauty is born’ . . . one wonders if Yeats could have ever forseen the real significance of this line (at the time) in the long troubled ‘history’ that was to follow.
Walter . . .
Deregon

You are far too kind and so much a gentleman. I will continue to share yeats with LI until they bloody stop me. And you have one of the greatest gifts a person can have -- a love for poetry -- the language of the heart.

SLAN. SLAN AGAT!!!
My friend!

Good to hear from you.

Isn't it beautiful, that he could talk of the ridicule that many had for these men and women, and yet truly understand what they had started? And everything turned out to be a true national beauty in the long run (until the , uh, Ulster ? is settled). I was troubled, during my two stays in Dublin w/my cousin, to find that this wondrous Irish struggle for such an abstract as freedom was seldom given thought. Of all the peoples of the world, the Irish have embodied the fire of freedom's light.

I am so damned proud of my Irish ancestry, American though I am.

Take Care, Walt "Whitman".
I am so glad that this poetry idea took off the way it did. I wasn't sure how it would be taken. As I can see, it has proved to be wonderfully taken and a great learning experience as well. Take care ... Slan
Lisa
Lisa, methinks ye have "an old soul", for loving poetry the way you so obviously do..!! Here is one of my favorites...

Never Give All the Heart

W. B. Yeats

Never give all the heart, for love
Will hardly seem worth thinking of
To passionate women if it seem
Certain, and they never dream
That it fades out from kiss to kiss;
For everything that's lovely is
But a brief, dreamy, kind delight.
O never give the heart outright,
For they, for all smooth lips can say,
Have given their hearts up to the play.
And who could play it well enough
If deaf and dumb and blind with love?
He that made this knows all the cost,
For he gave all his heart and lost.

Slán go fhoill, mo chara..!!

Dabh
Dabh....you are for certain al ole softie...This poem for me is a favourite...I recall my Granny reading it to me years ago........She told me one Erin there are 2 most importnat things in life....#1 is LOve and #2 is your next breath , nothing else matters..She was a wise ole soould like yourself.

Do I ache for love? what a beauitful poem...so simply and true..........Beannacht de leat....Erin
Dabh...You are an ole softie...I do love poetry so much. There is so much meaning and depth. I don't think people reach far enough inside to actually bring out all they can to express themselves. I am trying to do that...I've been inspired lately to start writing my own poetry again. I hope to post some soon. Thank you for sharing. It's been awhile since we have chatted...need to catch up. So many new faces around here....seems us that the "regs" are in hiding. Glad to have brought you out...LOL

Slán go fhoill
Lisa

We lovers of the metered (and unmetered) word owe you much for having started this discussion.

I've been posting Yeats prolifically. Yet there is sort of a new Yates (tho Walter may not agree).

Here is a poem by Seamus Heaney -- still writing (and walt, he's a Northman like you, I believe).

This is especially in tribute to those two great Bogmen, Pat and Greg.

Enjoy.


We have no prairies
To slice a big sun at evening--
Everywhere the eye concedes to
Encrouching horizon,

Is wooed into the cyclops' eye
Of a tarn. Our unfenced country
Is bog that keeps crusting
Between the sights of the sun.

They've taken the skeleton
Of the Great Irish Elk
Out of the peat, set it up
An astounding crate full of air.

Butter sunk under
More than a hundred years
Was recovered salty and white.
The ground itself is kind, black butter

Melting and opening underfoot,
Missing its last definition
By millions of years.
They'll never dig coal here,

Only the waterlogged trunks
Of great firs, soft as pulp.
Our pioneers keep striking
Inwards and downwards,

Every layer they strip
Seems camped on before.
The bogholes might be Atlantic seepage.
The wet centre is bottomless.
You are most welcome. Isn't life beautiful, if you search beauty that is always everywhere.

Slan agat!

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