Poetry

Grown Out Of

My trousers are tight.
They just won’t fit.

And my jumper?
I’ve grown out of it.

My shirt’s too short.
It just won’t do.

There are holes in my socks
where my toes peep through.

It’s lucky I don’t
grow out of my skin.

‘Cos then there’d be nothing
to put me in.

Tony Mitton

To A Squirrel At Kyle-Na-No

Come play with me;

Why should you run,

Through the shaking tree,

As though I’d a gun,

To strike you dead?

When all I would do –

Is to scratch your head,

And let you go.


W.B. Yeats

To A Squirrel At Kyle-Na-No

The Lake Isle of Innisfree

I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree,

And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made:

Nine bean- rows will I have there, a hive for the honey-bee,

And live alone in the bee-loud  glade.

I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow,

Dropping from the veils of of the morning to where the cricket sing;

There midnight’s all a glimmer, and noon a purple glow,

And evening full of the linnet’s wings.

I will arise and go now, for always night and day

I hear lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore;

While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements grey,

I hear it in the deep heart’s core.

W.B. Yeats

The Lake Isle of Innisfree

The Wayfarer

The beauty of the world hath made me sad,

This beauty that will pass;

Sometimes my heart hath shaken with great joy

To see a leaping squirrel in a tree,

Or a red lady-bird upon a stalk,

Or little rabbits in a field at evening,

Lit by slanting sun,

Or some green hill where shadows drift by,

Some quiet hill where mountainy man hath sown

And soon will reap, near to the gate of Heaven;

Or children with bare feet upon the sands

Of some ebbed sea, or playing on the streets

Of little towns in Connacht,

Things young and happy.

And then my heart hath told me:

These will pass,

Will pass and change, will die and be no more,

Things bright and green, things young and happy;

And I have gone upon my way

Sorrowful.

Padraic Pearse.

 

The Wayfarer