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Beautiful Irish Poem

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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Permalink Reply by Walter on April 25, 2008 at 19:47

Frank,

I almost get as much pleasure out of reading your ‘reviews’ as I do posting poems. You have a keen eye for the written word and it shows. Your students were fortunate indeed to have such a knowledgeable and passionate teacher. Hopefully, some of them were wise enough to recognize that. We are now the beneficiaries of your ‘wisdom’.

Walter . . .

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Permalink Reply by Dabhoch on April 25, 2008 at 17:34

Maybe this isn't the place, but here's one I'm working on - it needs some polishing, but see what you think..!!

No Answers

I’m sorry, but you’ll get no answers from me.
Hell, if I had answers, ‘tis wealthy I‘d be.
Questions are many, but answers are few,
And the wealthy don’t share with the likes of me and you..

At least not their answers to how they got rich –
Their secrets of happiness, prosperity, and tax benefits.
Oh, they’ll tell you it’s hard work, perseverance and toil,
“Good luck..?? No way, José..!! That’s just a foil..!!”

But isn’t there wealth in the smile of a child
Who never will live a normal lifestyle,
Who loves without knowing what it is that he does,
Only that it seems to be pleasing to us..??

I’m sure you have questions – you’re trying to see -
All the same, you’ll get no answers from me.

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Permalink Reply by Frank Daub on April 25, 2008 at 17:48

Dabhoch

It is the place, right? We are lovers of the poetic form and the poetic form is so underused today.

The theme here is particularly important to me because I see the disinterest of the "rich" as one of the greatest sins of our time.

And why would we ever stop talking about the true beauty of life?

May I comment on the meter? There are some lines that are rough in the sense that they break the established meter in verse 1. Actually, the break from the meter occurs in the last line of the first verse.

The second line of verse 2 also moves into some extra beats that need paring.

Finally, I think there is more to say in terms of developing the counter-verse -- verse 3. And the second line of verse 3 starts a "mystery" that doesn't pan out for the reader. i want to know more about -- Who never will live a normal lifestyle.

A very nice piece.

Frank in St. Louis

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Permalink Reply by Dabhoch on April 25, 2008 at 18:02

Think of Phil Coulter's song, "Scorn Not His Simplicity" and you'll have it..
Yes, the piece is rough in places, a bit trite in some - I'm still working on it..
Sometimes, I think a break in the metre can serve to jolt the reader.. not altogether a bad thing, if done right..
For some reason, I keep going to the sonnet form - can't imagine why... (?)

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Permalink Reply by Frank Daub on April 25, 2008 at 18:07

Not trite, Dabhoch.

I have two special needs sons, one 30 and one 25. They are marvelous people. One actually runs his own lawn care service. They are "special" but the problem is that they are aware of the many things they'll never have.

it is a good poem and tells me about you.

Frank in St. Louis

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Permalink Reply by Dabhoch on April 25, 2008 at 18:16

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..!!

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Permalink Reply by Walter on April 25, 2008 at 19:36

Dabhoch,

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 . . .

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Permalink Reply by Felicia on April 25, 2008 at 17:54

Nicely written and your poem touches me. Thanks for sharing.

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Permalink Reply by Lisa on April 25, 2008 at 21:57

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)

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Permalink Reply by Frank Daub on April 25, 2008 at 18:47

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.

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Permalink Reply by Frank Daub on April 25, 2008 at 21:03

Pierre

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!!!