From Hawk And Kite (The Rocky Road To Dublin)

    Poor, frightened, fluttered, silent one!
        If we had seen your nest of clay
    We would have passed it by, and gone,
        Nor frightened you away.

    For there are others guard a nest
        From hawk and kite and lurking foe,
    And more despair is in their breast
        Than you can ever know.

    Shield the nests where'er they be,
    On the ground or on the tree;
    Guard the poor from treachery.

James Stephens

James Stephens was an Irish novelist and poet, whose literary output includes many retellings of Irish myths and fairy tales. He was born on February 9, 1880, and passed away on December 26, 1950. Notable works include 'The Crock of Gold' and 'The Demi-Gods'. Stephens also wrote several well-regarded collections of poetry, including 'The Hill of Vision' and 'Insurrections'. His work is characterized by a blend of myth, fantasy, and modernism, capturing the spirit and culture of Ireland.

James Stephens

Dublin Men (The Rocky Road To Dublin)

James Stephens, Simple Poetry

Merrion Square (The Rocky Road To Dublin)

James Stephens, Simple Poetry

Westland Row (The Rocky Road To Dublin)

James Stephens, Simple Poetry

The Goat Paths

James Stephens, 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.

The Fifteen Acres (The Rocky Road To Dublin)

        I cling and swing
        On a branch, or sing
    Through the cool, clear hush of Morning, O:
        Or fling my wing
        On the air, and bring
    To sleepier birds a warning, O:
        That the night's in flight,
        And the sun's in sight,
    And the dew is the grass adorning, O:
        And the green leaves swing
        As I sing, sing, sing,
            Up by the river,
                Down the dell,
            To the little wee nest,
                Where the big tree fell,
            So early in the morning, O.

        I flit and twit
        In the sun for a bit
    When his light so bright is shining, O:
        Or sit and fit
        My plumes, or knit
    Straw plaits for the nest's nice lining, ...

James Stephens

The Hawk

Call down the hawk from the air;
Let him be hooded or caged
Till the yellow eye has grown mild,
For larder and spit are bare,
The old cook enraged,
The scullion gone wild.

I will not be clapped in a hood,
Nor a cage, nor alight upon wrist,
Now I have learnt to be proud
Hovering over the wood
In the broken mist
Or tumbling cloud.

What tumbling cloud did you cleave,
Yellow-eyed hawk of the mind,
Last evening? that I, who had sat
Dumbfounded before a knave,
Should give to my friend
A pretence of wit.

William Butler Yeats

The Skylark

Above the russet clods the corn is seen
Sprouting its spiry points of tender green,
Where squats the hare, to terrors wide awake,
Like some brown clod the harrows failed to break.
Opening their golden caskets to the sun,
The buttercups make schoolboys eager run,
To see who shall be first to pluck the prize--
Up from their hurry see the Skylark flies,
And oer her half-formed nest, with happy wings,
Winnows the air till in the cloud she sings,
Then hangs a dust spot in the sunny skies,
And drops and drops till in her nest she lies,
Which they unheeded passed--not dreaming then
That birds, which flew so high, would drop again
To nests upon the ground, which anything
May come at to destroy. Had they the wing
Like such a bird, themselves would be too proud
And...

John Clare

A Bird's Nest.

        An old man who had charge of field,
        With pride he saw two birds did build,
        A broad capacious warm nest,
        So full of young with speckled breast,

        And when the old man there did pass,
        They soon ran merry 'mong the grass,
        But of the youth they were so shy,
        They made strong efforts for to fly.

        Youths tried with old man to prevail,
        To let them blaze away at quail,
        But though they longed for a fat pot,
        At them they never got a shot.

        No more the old man doth them shield,
        For they have flown to broader field,
        Long may they spread their wings and tail,
        And may no foe them 'ere assail.

James McIntyre

The Nightingales Nest.

Up this green woodland-ride lets softly rove,
And list the nightingale - she dwells just here.
Hush ! let the wood-gate softly clap, for fear
The noise might drive her from her home of love ;
For here Ive heard her many a merry year -
At morn, at eve, nay, all the live-long day,
As though she lived on song. This very spot,
Just where that old-mans-beard all wildly trails
Rude arbours oer the road, and stops the way -
And where that child its blue-bell flowers hath got,
Laughing and creeping through the mossy rails -
There have I hunted like a very boy,
Creeping on hands and knees through matted thorn
To find her nest, and see her feed her young.
And vainly did I many hours employ :
All seemed as hidden as a thought unborn.
And where those crimping fern-lea...

John Clare

The Bird's Nest.

What is Harry thinking of,
    Sitting on that mossy stone?
All his brothers are at play;
    Why is he so still and lone?

He is musing earnestly;
    And the flutterings of the bird
And its pleading, feeble chirp
    Fall upon his ear unheard.

Well may little Harry think!
    From the pear-tree's withered bough
He has brought the pretty nest,
    Placed within his hat-crown now.

That is why he sits alone;
    And he hears a voice within,
Louder than the Robin's note,
    Crying, "Harry, this is sin!"

Then put back the nest, my boy,
    So you will be glad and free,
Nor will hasten by in shame,
    When you pass that withered tree.

H. P. Nichols