Irish Internet Radio and TV from Dublin, Ireland.


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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Thanks for your kind comments, my friend - our grandson is in a class by himself - 11 years old now, and still does not walk or talk. Still, we rejoice in each small breakthrough - he is learning to count and distinguish colors now..!! And, what a happy little fellow he is..!! We care for him on weekends, to give my daughter some respite - he has turned our life upside down, but somehow, we don't mind..!!
Slán agus beannachtaí, mo cara..!!

I know not of your wealth or means in monetary terms neither am I interested. What I do glean from your poem (especially in the third verse) is a man who finds great prosperity in the unreserved love and warmth of a child particularly one with life challenges. I have read your poem and observed your photos on your LI page and what I see is a man who is perhaps ‘the richest man in town.’ Money can be counted . . . love is infinite. Keep writing we are all enriched.

Walter . . .
Nicely written and your poem touches me. Thanks for sharing.
I have to agree with Walter's comment "is a man who finds great prosperity in the unreserved love and warmth of a child particularly one with life challenges." Wonderful job Dab!! Miss you lots...hope to catch up soon! Lisa (TEXAS)
Dedicated to Felicia and Dabhoch -- and all who are the teachers of the young . . .

Among School Children

William Butler Yeats

I walk through the long schoolroom questioning;
A kind old nun in a white hood replies;
The children learn to cipher and to sing,
To study reading-books and histories,
To cut and sew, be neat in everything
In the best modern way -- the children's eyes
In momentary wonder stare upon
A sixty-year-old smiling public man.

I dream of a Ledaean body, bent
Above a sinking fire. A tale that she
Told of a harsh reproof, or trivial event
That changed some childish day to tragedy --
Told, and it seemed that our two natures blent
Into a sphere from youthful sympathy,
Or else, to alter Plato's parable,
Into the yolk and white of the one shell.

And thinking of that fit of grief or rage
I look upon one child or t'other there
And wonder if she stood so at that age --
For even daughters of the swan can share
Something of every paddler's heritage --
And had that colour upon cheek or hair,
And thereupon my heart is driven wild:
She stands before me as a living child.
Her present image floats into the mind --
Did Quattrocento finger fashion it
Hollow of cheek as though it drank the wind
And took a mess of shadows for its meat?
And I though never of Ledaean kind
Had pretty plumage once -- enough of that,
Better to smile on all that smile, and show
There is a comfortable kind of old scarecrow.

You do understand. You are one of those rare people in our world today -- an humble man who shares his intelligence rather than shows it off.

Slan agat!!!
That's amazing-made my day!
My God loves me that Thomas MOORE and this century of enlightenment, I thank you for the gift kiss ....
Tis true my friend! Sharing on this page has made me look more seriously on my writing. Wrote a blog on my page today even!
Louise Moloney said this day, on LI, "there's no better place to be than in Dublin on a sunny day," and there's none of us couldn't agree more. Got me to thinking about a great Irish literary tradition coming up soon . . . Bloom's Day. Got to be in Dublin on Bloom's Day once, while still a literature teacher several years ago. My wife and I did the walk and bought so many books I had to leave some with my cousin.

Anyway, since dear Lisa started this great forum so long ago, we've most all enjoyed the poetry. Here is a piece of writing by Joyce that not only tastes like great Irish poetry, but helps bring one side of the grand City of Dublin to life for those who can't be there just now. A little piece but grand.

"By lorries along Sir John Rogerson's Quay, Mr. Bloom walked soberly, past Windmill Lane, Leask's the linseed crusher's, the postal telegraph office... past the sailors' home. He turned from the morning noises of the quayside and walked through Lime Street. By Brady's cottages a boy for the skins lolled... a smaller girl with scars of eczema on her forehead eyed him, listlessly holding her battered caskhoop.
As he set foot on O'Connell Bridge a puffball of smoke plumed up from the parapet. ...He crossed at Nassau street corner and stood before the window of Yeates and Son, pricing the field glasses. Or will I drop into old Harris's and have a chat with young Sinclair? Well-mannered fellow. Probably at his lunch."

So spake Joyce. And God bless him, too!
This was very interesting-made me almost miss Dublin (I am not a fan).


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