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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It's summer and the wee people are about. We cannot forget them, all sorts of the little people. with different tasks to do. Mostly to bring us secret joy and enlighten our imaginations. Are they in your yard? Have you ever waited into the orange and blue of an evening hoping to see them? I did when I was a child; built small huts of sticks and pebbles. I believed in them. My Irish aunt told me they were as real as any person.

Now it's summer and they are frisky and wandering about. Tell your children about them. Seek them yourself, for they bring more to the heart than the news of the day and the world.

Here is a poem about the fairies, in whom Yeats believed. I dedicate this poem to all of my LI family, especially to Walter, Pierre, Felicia, Dabhoch, Jim in Greece, and especially Lisa, the Colleen who started the whole poetry adventure.

Frank Daub

A Lover's Quarrel Among the Fairies

A moonlight moor. Fairies leading a child.

Male Fairies: Do not fear us, earthly maid!
We will lead you hand in hand
By the willows in the glade,
By the gorse on the high land,

By the pasture where the lambs
Shall awake with lonely bleat,
Shivering closer to their dams
From the rustling of our feet.

You will with the banshee chat,
And will find her good at heart,
Sitting on a warm smooth mat
In the green hill's inmost part.

We will bring a crown of gold
Bending humbly every knee,
Now thy great white doll to hold --
Oh, so happy would we be!

Ah it is so very big,
And we are so very small!
So we dance a fairy jig
To the fiddle's rise and fall.

Yonder see the fairy girls
All their jealousy display,
Lift their chins and toss their curls,
Lift their chins and turn away.

See you, brother, Cranberry Fruit --
He! ho! ho! the merry blade! --
Hugs and pets and pats yon newt,
Teasing every wilful maid.

Girl Fairies: Lead they one with foolish care,
Deafening us with idle sound --
One whose breathing shakes the air,
One whose footfall shakes the ground.

Come you, Coltsfoot, Mousetail, come!
Come I know where, far away,
Owls there be whom age makes numb;
Come and tease them till the day.

Puffed like puff-balls on a tree,
Scoff they at the modern earth --
Ah! how large mice used to be
In their days of youthful mirth!

Come, beside a sandy lake,
Feed a fire with stems of grass;
Roasting berries steam and shake --
Talking hours swiftly pass!

Long before the morning fire
Wake the larks upon the green.
Yonder foolish ones will tire
Of their tall, new-fangled queen.

They will lead her home again
To the orchard-circled farm;
At the house of weary men
Raise the door-pin with alarm,

And come kneeling on one knee,
While we shake our heads and scold
This their wanton treachery,
And our slaves be as of old.

Don’t you just love the rhyme?! Music to my ears. And don’t these little fellas spend all of their time making little brogues? And there are female fairies too! Makes sense . . . all work and no play a happy male fairy does not make.

Beautiful poem – the Master at work.

Walter . . .
Clancy Bros recorded a lovely reading of Yeat's Host of the Air in 1961 at Carnegie Hall in New York and put it on their "At Carnegie Hall" Album--worth a listen if you're a Yeats fan and is on Youtube at:
For my dear, dear friends who have continued to share great Irish poetry and their love of it . . . I have been remiss in posting anything for a long while. I came across this poem while looking for something to send to my cousin in Dublin. He'll be having surgery in two days and I want him to realize what a treasue he has been to me. Dermot is 73 and if ever there was an Irishman who fit the following poem, it's Him.

The Cry of a Dreamer
John Boyle O Riley 1844-1890

I am tired of planning and toiling
In the crowded hives of men;
Heart-weary of building and spoiling,
And spoiling and building again.
And I long for the dear old river,
Where I dreamed my youth away;
For a dreamer lives forever,
And a toiler dies in a day.

I am sick of the showy seeming
Of a life that is half a lie;
Of the faces lined with scheming
In the throng that hurries by.
From the sleepless thoughts' endeavor,
I would go where the children play;
For a dreamer lives forever,
And a thinker dies in a day.

I can feel no pride, but pity
For the burdens the rich endure;
There is nothing sweet in the city
But the patient lives of the poor.
Oh, the little hands too skillful,
And the child-mind choked with weeds!
The daughter's heart grown willful,
And the father's heart that bleeds!

No, no! from the street's rude bustle,
From the trophies of mart and stage,
I would fly to the woods' low rustle
And the meadows' kindly page.
Let me dream as of old by the river,
And be loved for the dream alway;
For a dreamer lives forever,
And a toiler dies in a day.
exquisite poem!
For my LI friends who are lovers of the poem, I've been so long away. So today, I wrote my own verse and dedicate it to all whoare in this house -- of poetry, and who are my FRIENDS.

by Frank Daub

It was an open door
That without sound called me in.
I stood with hesitation until I realized my sin

Of never trusting.

I reckoned, in the human-only- way,
That such a friendly looking door
Could only be surprise
Of meeting expectations.
I saw only with my eyes
And not my soul.

Yet without entrance through that threshold,
I somehow realized
That never would I be whole

Enough to love.

Outside I waited, long enough
To shake the fear and take the chance
That there are friends inside,
Friends to bring me song and dance,
To bring me dreams
To tell me stories of loving.

I entered then,
And enter every chance that comes,
To meet and sing and dance,

To know that I am home.

Wonderful poem! Be it known that you are indeed ‘home’ . . . the poetry forum is always somewhat empty when you are ‘missing’ for a while. Too often we see ‘only with the eyes’ and not ‘with the soul.’ Great insight!
What prompted you to ‘wait long enough . . . to shake the fear . . . of meeting expectations’? Whose? Not ours I hope - your poetry forum Friends. Without you our poetry forum home is but a house. I know this sentiment will be echoed by your other forum Friends.

This poem speaks from the heart in a sensitive, self-confessing manner with an ease of words that have a ‘Yeats feel’ to them. Great praise indeed . . . and you rhyme as well! Now that’s what I call poetry.

Walter . . .
So good to hear from you, North Man. My fellow literary traveler.

The poem is intended to say nothing more than "We are meant to be called to each other as friends, so come inside. Don't stand without because you fear that you won't be accepted."

I have no fear whatsoever about being part of our Poetry Forum, and my thought is always proven true when I enter the doorway of the home that Lisa made for all of us.

Dia Dhuit!

Thanks so much for sharing. This is the crossroads to me, whereby we all consult our conscience and decide if we are up totask. Breathtaking imagery and eloquently stated.
I love this. Very well written. Glad to call you all friends!
Lisa, I just found this poem. It is beautiful. I guess I'm a hopeless romantic; but i just love poems like this.
Ah, my Irish-French friend. Comment allez-vous?

I treasure your messages and our electronic friendship. As my Irish great grandmother used to say (didn't really understand her until my grandfather translated) -- "It's a wonderment to have friends, and a miracle to keep them."

Thank you for the kind words about the poem. It was sort of bubbling and splashing inside. Visiting the Poetry Forum does that for me. It's like being part of an Irish Literary University, right?

And to you I wish the comfort of home; you bring it to so many on this LI website.

Une seule langue n'est jaime suffisante --

Níl aon tintéan mar do thintéan féin.



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