One And One

Do you hate me, you!
Sitting quietly there,
With the burnished hair
That frames the two
Deep eyes of your face
In a smooth embrace.

And you say naught,
And I never speak;
But you rest your cheek
On your hand, a thought
Showing plain as the brow
Goes wrinkling now.

Of what do you think,
Sitting opposite me,
As you stir the tea
That you do not drink,
And frown at nought
With those brows of thought.

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

Check (The Adventures Of Seumas Beg)

James Stephens, Simple Poetry

The County Mayo

James Stephens, Simple Poetry

Owen O'Néill

James Stephens, Simple Poetry

The Coral Island (The Adventures Of Seumas Beg)

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.

Geoffrey Keating

    O woman full of wiliness!
        Although for love of me you pine,
    Withhold your hand adventurous,
        It holdeth nothing holding mine.

    Look on my head, how it is grey!
        My body's weakness doth appear;
    My blood is chill and thin; my day
        Is done, and there is nothing here.

    Do not call me a foolish man,
        Nor lean your lovely cheek to mine
    O slender witch, our bodies can
        Not mingle now, nor any time.

    So take your mouth from mine, your hand
        From mine, ah, take your lips away!
    Lest heat to will should ripen, and
        All this be grave that had been gay.

    It is this curl, a silken nest,
        And this grey eye bright as the dew,
    And this round, lo...

James Stephens

Mistress Quiet-Eyes

While I sit beside the window
I can hear the pigeons coo,
That the air is warm and blue,
And how well the young bird flew -
Then I fold my arms and scold the heart
That thought the pigeons knew.

While I sit beside the window
I can watch the flowers grow
Till the seeds are ripe and blow
To the fruitful earth below -
Then I shut my eyes and tell my heart
The flowers cannot know.

While I sit beside the window
I am growing old and drear;
Does it matter what I hear,
What I see, or what I fear?
I can fold my hands and hush my heart
That is straining to a tear.

The earth is gay with leaf and flower,
The fruit is ripe upon the tree,
The pigeons coo in the swinging bower,
But I sit wearily
Watching a beggar-woman nurse

James Stephens

She, I, And They

    I was sitting,
    She was knitting,
And the portraits of our fore-folk hung around;
When there struck on us a sigh;
"Ah - what is that?" said I:
"Was it not you?" said she. "A sigh did sound."

    I had not breathed it,
    Nor the night-wind heaved it,
And how it came to us we could not guess;
And we looked up at each face
Framed and glazed there in its place,
Still hearkening; but thenceforth was silentness.

    Half in dreaming,
    "Then its meaning,"
Said we, "must be surely this; that they repine
That we should be the last
Of stocks once unsurpassed,
And unable to keep up their sturdy line."

1916.

Thomas Hardy

Philosophy

I.

His eyes found nothing beautiful and bright,
Nor wealth nor, honour, glory nor delight,
Which he could grasp and keep with might and right.

Flowers bloomed for maidens, swords outflashed for boys,
The worlds big children had their various toys;
He could not feel their sorrows and their joys.

Hills held a secret they would not unfold,
In careless scorn of him the ocean rolled,
The stars were alien splendours high and cold.

He felt himself a king bereft of crown,
Defrauded from his birthright of renown,
Bred up in littleness with churl and clown.



II.

How could he vindicate himself? His eyes,
That found not anywhere their proper prize,
Looked through and through the specious earth and skies,

They prob...

James Thomson

A Variation

I am tired of this!
Nothing else but loving!
Nothing else but kiss and kiss,
Coo, and turtle-doving!
    Can't you change the order some?
    Hate me just a little - come!

Lay aside your "dears,"
"Darlings," "kings," and "princes!" -
Call me knave, and dry your tears -
Nothing in me winces, -
    Call me something low and base -
    Something that will suit the case!

Wish I had your eyes
And their drooping lashes!
I would dry their teary lies
Up with lightning-flashes -
    Make your sobbing lips unsheathe
    All the glitter of your teeth!

Can't you lift one word -
With some pang of laughter -
Louder than the drowsy bird
Crooning 'neath the rafter?
    Just one bitter word, to shriek
    Madly at me as I sp...

James Whitcomb Riley

In The Room

 Ceste insigne fable et tragicque comedie.
- RABELAIS.

I.

The sun was down, and twilight grey
Filled half the air; but in the room,
Whose curtain had been drawn all day,
The twilight was a dusky gloom:
Which seemed at first as still as death,
And void; but was indeed all rife
With subtle thrills, the pulse and breath
Of multitudinous lower life.



II.

In their abrupt and headlong way
Bewildered flies for light had dashed
Against the curtain all the day,
And now slept wintrily abashed;
And nimble mice slept, wearied out
With such a double nights uproar;
But solid beetles crawled about
The chilly hearth and naked floor.



III.

And so throughout the twilight hour
That ...

James Thomson