A Bird From The West

At the grey dawn, amongst the felling leaves,
        A little bird outside my window swung,
High on a topmost branch he trilled his song,
        And Ireland! Ireland! Ireland! ever sung.

Take me, I cried, back to my island home;
        Sweet bird, my soul shall ride between thy wings;
For my lone spirit wide his pinions spread,
        And home and home and home he ever sings.

We lingered over Ulster stern and wild.
        I called: Arise! doth none remember me?
One turnèd in the darkness murmuring,
        How loud upon the breakers sobs the sea!

We rested over Connaught-whispering said:
        Awake, awake, and welcome!    I am here.
One woke and shivered at the morning grey;
        The trees, I never heard them sigh so drear.

We flew low over Munster.    Long I wept:
        You used to love me, love me once again!
They spoke from out the shadows wondering;
        Youd think of tears, so bitter falls the rain.

Long over Leinster lingered we. Good-bye!
        My best beloved, good-bye for evermore.
Sleepless they tossed and whispered to the dawn;
        So sad a wind was never heard before.

Was it a dream I dreamt?    For yet there swings
        In the grey morn a bird upon the bough,
And Ireland! Ireland! Ireland! ever sings.
        Oh! fair the breaking day in Ireland now.

Dora Sigerson Shorter

Dora Sigerson Shorter was an Irish poet and sculptor born in Dublin in 1866. She was one of the leading figures of the Irish Literary Revival, a movement that aimed to promote Irish literature and culture in the late 19th and early 20th centuries. She was also a close friend of W.B. Yeats and married the writer and journalist Clement King Shorter. Dora's work often dealt with themes of Irish nationalism and folklore, and she published several volumes of poetry before her untimely death in 1918.

Dora Sigerson Shorter

The Fair Little Maiden

Dora Sigerson Shorter, Simple Poetry

The Scallop Shell

Dora Sigerson Shorter, Simple Poetry

The Ballad Of The Little Black Hound

Dora Sigerson Shorter, Simple Poetry

I Prayed So Eagerly

Dora Sigerson Shorter, Simple Poetry

English

Suggested Poems

Explore a curated selection of verses that share themes, styles, and emotional resonance with the poem you've just read.

An Irish Blackbird

This is my brave singer,
        With his beak of gold;
Now my hearts a captive
        In his songs sweet hold.

O, the larks a rover,
        Seeking fields above:
But my serenader
        Hath a human love.

Hark! he says, in winter
        Nests are full of snow,
But a truce to wailing
        Summer breezes blow.

Hush! he sings, with night-time
        Phantoms cease to be,
Join your serenader
        Piping on his tree.

O, my little lover,
        Warble in the blue;
Wingless must I envy
        Skies so wide for you.

Dora Sigerson Shorter

Distant Voices

I left my home for travelling;
Because I heard the strange birds sing
In foreign skies, and felt their wing

Brush past my soul impatiently;
I saw the bloom on flower and tree
That only grows beyond the sea.

Methought the distant voices spake
More wisdom than near tongues can make;
I followed-lest my heart should break.

And what is past is past and done.
I dreamt, and here the dream begun:
I saw a salmon in the sun

Leap from the river to the shore-
Ah! strange mishap, so wounded sore,
To his sweet stream to turn no more.

A bird from neath his mothers breast,
Spread his weak wings in vain request;
Never again to reach his nest.

I saw a blossom bloom too soon
Upon a summers afternoon;
Twill breathe no mo...

Dora Sigerson Shorter

The Lock Of Hair.

It is in sooth a lovely tress,
    Still curled in many a ring,
As glossy as the plumes that dress
    The raven's jetty wing.
And the broad and soul-illumined brow,
    Above whose arch it grew,
Was like the stainless mountain snow,
    In its purity of hue.

I mind the time 'twas given to me,
    The night, the hour, the spot;
And the eye that pleaded silently,
    "Forget the giver not."
Oh! myriads of stars, on high,
    Were smiling sweetly fair,
But none was lovely as the eye
    That shone beside me there!

Above our heads an ancient oak
    Its strong, wide arms held out,
And from its roots a fountain broke,
    With a tiny laughing shout;
And the fairy people of the wild
    Were bending to their rest,
As trusti...

George W. Sands

Erin, Mavourneen.

A Prize Poem.


I know Canada is fair to see, and pleasant; it is well
On the banks of its broad river 'neath the maple trees to dwell;
But the heart is very wilful, and in sorrow or in mirth,
Mine will turn with sore love-longing to the land that gave me birth;
And I wish that, oh but once again! my longing eyes might see
The green island that lies smiling on the bosom of the sea;
That is fed with heaven's dew and the fatness of the earth,
Fanned by wild Atlantic breezes that sweep over it in mirth.

Its green robe is starred with daisies; it is brilliant fresh and fair,
With a verdure that no other spot of earth affords to wear.
It has banks of pale primroses that like bits of moonlight glow;
There are hawthorn hedges blossomed out like drifts of perfumed snow,

Nora Pembroke

The Abbot Of Innisfallen

The Abbot of Innisfallen
awoke ere dawn of day;
Under the dewy green leaves
went he forth to pray.
The lake around his island
lay smooth and dark and deep,
And wrapt in a misty stillness
the mountains were all asleep.
Low kneel'd the Abbot Cormac
when the dawn was dim and gray;
The prayers of his holy office
he faithfully 'gan say.
Low kneel'd the Abbot Cormac
while the dawn was waxing red;
And for his sins' forgiveness
a solemn prayer he said:
Low kneel'd that holy Abbot
while the dawn was waxing clear;
And he pray'd with loving-kindness
for his convent-brethren dear.
Low kneel'd that blessed Abbot
while the dawn was waxing bright;
He pray'd a great prayer for Ireland,
he pray'd with all his might.
Low kneel'd that good...

William Allingham

The Kine Of My Father

The kine of my rather, they are straying from my keeping;
        The young goats at mischief, but little can I do:
For all through the night did I hear the Banshee keening;
        O youth of my loving, and is it well with you?

All through the night sat my mother with my sorrow;
        Whisht, it is the wind, O one childeen of my heart!
My hair with the wind, and my two hands clasped in anguish;
        Black head of my darling! too long are we apart.

Were your grave at my feet, I would think it half a blessing;
        I could herd then the cattle, and drive the goats away;
Many a Paternoster I would say for your safe keeping;
        I could sleep above your heart, until the dawn of day.

I see you on the prairie, hot with thirst and faint with hunger;

Dora Sigerson Shorter