Peggy Mitchell

    As lily grows up easily,
    In modest, gentle dignity
    To sweet perfection,
    So grew she,
    As easily.

    Or as the rose that takes no care
    Will open out on sunny air
    Bloom after bloom, fair after fair,
    Sweet after sweet;
    Just so did she,
    As carelessly.

    She is our torment without end,
    She is our enemy and friend,
    Our joy, our woe;
    And she will send
    Madness or glee
    To you and me,
    And endlessly.

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

Anthony O'Daly

James Stephens, Simple Poetry

Mary Hynes

James Stephens, Simple Poetry

The College Of Science (The Rocky Road To Dublin)

James Stephens, Simple Poetry

The Snare

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.

Young Peggy.

Tune - "Last time I cam o'er the muir."


I.

    Young Peggy blooms our bonniest lass,
        Her blush is like the morning,
    The rosy dawn, the springing grass,
        With early gems adorning:
    Her eyes outshone the radiant beams
        That gild the passing shower,
    And glitter o'er the crystal streams,
        And cheer each fresh'ning flower.

II.

    Her lips, more than the cherries bright,
        A richer dye has graced them;
    They charm th' admiring gazer's sight,
        And sweetly tempt to taste them:
    Her smile is, as the evening mild,
        When feather'd tribes are courting,
    And little lambkins wanton wild,
        In playful bands disporting.

III.

    Were...

Robert Burns

Peggy

Peggy said good morning and I said good bye,
When farmers dib the corn and laddies sow the rye.
Young Peggy's face was common sense and I was rather shy
When I met her in the morning when the farmers sow the rye.

Her half laced boots fit tightly as she tripped along the grass,
And she set her foot so lightly where the early bee doth pass.
Oh Peggy was a young thing, her face was common sense,
I courted her about the spring and loved her ever thence.

Oh Peggy was the young thing and bonny as to size;
Her lips were cherries of the spring and hazel were her eyes.
Oh Peggy she was straight and tall as is the poplar tree,
Smooth as the freestone of the wall, and very dear to me.

Oh Peggy's gown was chocolate and full of cherries white;
I keep a bit on't for her ...

John Clare

Peggy's the Lady of the Hall

And will she leave the lowly clowns
For silk and satins gay,
Her woollen aprons and drab gowns
For lady's cold array?
And will she leave the wild hedge rose,
The redbreast and the wren,
And will she leave her Sunday beaus
And milk shed in the glen?
And will she leave her kind friends all
To be the Lady of the Hall?

The cowslips bowed their golden drops,
The white thorn white as sheets;
The lamb agen the old ewe stops,
The wren and robin tweets.
And Peggy took her milk pails still,
And sang her evening song,
To milk her cows on Cowslip Hill
For half the summer long.
But silk and satins rich and rare
Are doomed for Peggy still to wear.

But when the May had turned to haws,
The hedge rose swelled to hips,
Peggy was missed ...

John Clare

My Peggy's Face.

Tune - "My Peggy's Face."



I.

    My Peggy's face, my Peggy's form,
    The frost of hermit age might warm;
    My Peggy's worth, my Peggy's mind,
    Might charm the first of human kind.
    I love my Peggy's angel air,
    Her face so truly, heav'nly fair,
    Her native grace so void of art,
    But I adore my Peggy's heart.

II.

    The lily's hue, the rose's dye,
    The kindling lustre of an eye;
    Who but owns their magic sway?
    Who but knows they all decay!
    The tender thrill, the pitying tear,
    The gen'rous purpose, nobly dear,
    The gentle look, that rage disarms
    These are all immortal charms.

Robert Burns

The Daisies

In the scented bud of the morning - O,
When the windy grass went rippling far,
I saw my dear one walking slow
In the field where the daisies are.

We did not laugh and we did not speak
As we wandered happily to and fro;
I kissed my dear on either cheek
In the bud of the morning - O.

A lark sang up from the breezy land,
A lark sang down from a cloud afar,
And she and I went hand in hand
In the field where the daisies are.

James Stephens

To A Rosebud In Humble Life

    Sweet, uncultivated blossom,
    Reared in Spring's refreshing dews,
    Dear to every gazer's bosom,
    Fair to every eye that views;--
    Opening bud, whose youth can charm us,
    Thine be many a happy hour:
    Spreading rose, whose beauties warm us--
    Flourish long, my lovely flower.

    Though pride look disdainful on thee,
    Scorning scenes so mean as thine,
    Although fortune frown upon thee,
    Lovely blossom, ne'er repine:
    Health unbought is ever with thee,
    Which their wealth can never gain;
    Innocence doth garments give thee,
    Such as fashion apes in vain.

    When fit time and reason grant thee
    Leave to quit the parent tree,
    May some happy hand transplant thee
    To a station suiting t...

John Clare