Poem – Easter Week – Joyce Kilmer

1 “Romantic Ireland’s dead and gone, 

2 It’s with O’Leary in the grave.” 

3 Then, Yeats, what gave that Easter dawn 

4 A hue so radiantly brave? 
5 There was a rain of blood that day, 

6 Red rain in gay blue April weather. 

7 It blessed the earth till it gave birth 

8 To valour thick as blooms of heather. 
9 Romantic Ireland never dies! 

10 O’Leary lies in fertile ground, 

11 And songs and spears throughout the years 

12 Rise up where patriot graves are found. 
13 Immortal patriots newly dead 

14 And ye that bled in bygone years, 

15 What banners rise before your eyes? 

16 What is the tune that greets your ears? 
17 The young Republic’s banners smile 

18 For many a mile where troops convene. 

19 O’Connell street is loudly sweet 

20 With strains of Wearing of the Green. 
21 The soil of Ireland throbs and glows 

22 With life that knows the hour is here 

23 To strike again like Irishmen 

24 For that which Irishmen hold dear. 
25 Lord Edward leaves his resting place 

26 And Sarsfield’s face is glad and fierce. 

27 See Emmet leap from troubled sleep 

28 To grasp the hand of Padraic Pearse! 
29 There is no rope can strangle song 

30 And not for long death takes his toll. 

31 No prison bars can dim the stars 

32 Nor quicklime eat the living soul. 
33 Romantic Ireland is not old. 

34 For years untold her youth shall shine. 

35 Her heart is fed on Heavenly bread, 

36 The blood of martyrs is her wine.

Poem – A Blue Valentine – Joyce Kilmer

(For Aline) 

Right Reverend Bishop Valentinus, 

Sometime of Interamna, which is called Ferni, 

Now of the delightful Court of Heaven, 

I respectfully salute you, 

I genuflect 

And I kiss your episcopal ring. 
It is not, Monsignore, 

The fragrant memory of your holy life, 

Nor that of your shining and joyous martyrdom, 

Which causes me now to address you. 

But since this is your august festival, Monsignore, 

It seems appropriate to me to state 

According to a venerable and agreeable custom, 

That I love a beautiful lady. 

Her eyes, Monsignore, 

Are so blue that they put lovely little blue reflections 

On everything that she looks at, 

Such as a wall 

Or the moon 

Or my heart. 

It is like the light coming through blue stained glass, 

Yet not quite like it, 

For the blueness is not transparent, 

Only translucent. 

Her soul’s light shines through, 

But her soul cannot be seen. 

It is something elusive, whimsical, tender, wanton, infantile, wise 

And noble. 

She wears, Monsignore, a blue garment, 

Made in the manner of the Japanese. 

It is very blue — 

I think that her eyes have made it more blue, 

Sweetly staining it 

As the pressure of her body has graciously given it form. 

Loving her, Monsignore, 

I love all her attributes; 

But I believe 

That even if I did not love her 

I would love the blueness of her eyes, 

And her blue garment, made in the manner of the Japanese. 

I have never before troubled you with a request. 

The saints whose ears I chiefly worry with my pleas 

are the most exquisite and maternal Brigid, 

Gallant Saint Stephen, who puts fire in my blood, 

And your brother bishop, my patron, 

The generous and jovial Saint Nicholas of Bari. 

But, of your courtesy, Monsignore, 

Do me this favour: 

When you this morning make your way 

To the Ivory Throne that bursts into bloom with roses 

because of her who sits upon it, 

When you come to pay your devoir to Our Lady, 

I beg you, say to her: 

“Madame, a poor poet, one of your singing servants yet on earth, 

Has asked me to say that at this moment he is especially grateful to you 

For wearing a blue gown.”

Poem -Negligent Mary – Ann Taylor 

AH, Mary! what, do you for dolly not care? 

And why is she left on the floor? 

Forsaken, and cover’d with dust, I declare; 

With you I must trust her no more. 
I thought you were pleased, as you took her so gladly, 

When on your birthday she was sent; 

Did I ever suppose you would use her so sadly? 

Was that, do you think, what I meant? 
With her bonnet of straw you once were delighted, 

And trimm’d it so pretty with pink; 

But now it is crumpled, and dolly is slighted: 

Her nurse quite forgets her, I think. 
Suppose now–for Mary is dolly to me, 

Whom I love to see tidy and fair– 

Suppose I should leave you, as dolly I see, 

In tatters, and comfortless there. 
But dolly feels nothing, as you do, my dear, 

Nor cares for her negligent nurse: 

If I were as careless as you are, I fear, 

Your lot, and my fault, would be worse. 
And therefore it is, in my Mary, I strive 

To check every fault that I see: 

Mary’s doll is but waxen–mamma’s is alive, 

And of far more importance than she.

Poem – Greedy Richard – Ann Taylor 

‘I THINK I want some pies this morning,’ 

Said Dick, stretching himself and yawning; 

So down he threw his slate and books, 

And saunter’d to the pastry-cook’s. 
And there he cast his greedy eyes 

Round on the jellies and the pies, 

So to select, with anxious care, 

The very nicest that was there. 
At last the point was thus decided: 

As his opinion was divided 

‘Twixt pie and jelly, being loth 

Either to leave, he took them both. 
Now Richard never could be pleased 

To stop when hunger was appeased, 

But would go on to eat still more 

When he had had an ample store. 
‘No, not another now,’ said Dick; 

‘Dear me, I feel extremely sick: 

I cannot even eat this bit; 

I wish I had not tasted it. ‘ 
Then slowing rising from his seat, 

He threw his cheesecake in the street, 

And left the tempting pastry-cook’s 

With very discontented looks. 
Just then a man with wooden leg 

Met Dick, and held his hat to beg; 

And while he told his mournful case, 

Look’d at him with imploring face. 
Dick, wishing to relieve his pain, 

His pockets search’d, but search’d in vain; 

And so at last he did declare, 

He had not left a farthing there. 
The beggar turn’d with face of grief, 

And look of patient unbelief, 

While Richard now his folly blamed, 

And felt both sorry and ashamed. 
‘I wish,’ said he (but wishing’s vain), 

‘I had my money back again, 

And had not spent my last, to pay 

For what I only threw away. 
‘Another time, I’ll take advice, 

And not buy things because they’re nice; 

But rather save my little store, 

To give to those who want it more. ‘