Poem – Wild Ass -Padraic Colum 

The wild ass lounges, legs struck out 

In vagrom unconcern: 

The tombs o Achaemenian kings 

Are for those hooves to spurn. 
And all of rugged Tartary 

Lies with him on the ground, 

The Tartary that knows no awe, 

That has nor ban nor bound. 
The wild horse from the herd is plucked 

To bear a saddle’s weight; 

The boar is one keeps covert, and 

The wolf runs with a mate. 
But he’s the solitary of space, 

Curbless and unbeguiled; 

The only being that bears a heart 

Not recreant to the wild.

Poem – Tulips – Padraic Colum

An age being mathematical, these flowers 

Of linear stalks and spheroid blooms were prized 

By men with wakened, speculative minds, 

And when with mathematics they explored 

The Macrocosm, and came at last to 

The Vital Spirit of the World, and named it 

Invisible Pure Fire, or, say, the Light, 

The Tulips were the Light’s receptacles. 

The gold, the bronze, the red, the bright-swart Tulips! 

No emblems they for us who no more dream 

Of mathematics burgeoning to light 

With Newton’s prism and Spinoza’s lens, 

Or berkeley’s ultimate, Invisible Pure Fire. 

In colored state and carven brilliancy 

We see them now, or, more illumined, 

In sudden fieriness, as flowers fit 

To go with vestments red on Pentecost.

Poem – The Poor Girl’s Meditation- Padraic Colum

I am  sitting here 

Since the moon rose in the night, 

Kindling a fire, 

And striving to keep it alight; 

The folk of the house are lying 

In slumber deep; 

The geese will be gabbling soon: 

The whole of the land is asleep. 
May I never leave this world 

Until my ill-luck is gone; 

Till I have cows and sheep, 

And the lad that I love for my own; 

I would not think it long, 

The night I would lie at his breast, 

And the daughters of spite, after that, 

Might say the thing they liked best. 
Love takes the place of hate, 

If a girl have beauty at all: 

On a bed that was narrow and high, 

A three-month I lay by the wall: 

When I bethought on the lad 

That I left on the brow of the hill, 

I wept from dark until dark, 

And my cheeks have the tear-tracks still. 
And, O young lad that I love, 

I am no mark for your scorn; 

All you can say of me is 

Undowered I was born: 

And if I’ve no fortune in hand, 

Nor cattle and sheep of my own, 

This I can say, O lad, 

I am fitted to lie my lone!

Poem – Snake – Padraic Colum

But, Snake, you must not come where we abide, 

For you would tempt us; we should hear you say: 
‘Oh, somewhere was a world was cold and spare, 

And voiceless; somewhere was a Being was not 
Engrossed with substance, with no fervencies 

Of love and hatred, and he made me, Snake! 
The wise Elohim, they who made the rest 

Of Creatures, made them ail-too manifold 
Mortised and rampired, jointed, vascular; 

And I was put an alien in their world, 
All head, all spine, all limb, all loin, 

Swift as a bird and single as a fish.’ 
Above you fruits unglanced at bend and glow, 

And, bare and voiceless, you do tempt us, Snake!

Poem – The Poet – Padraic Colum

‘The blackbird’s in the briar, 

The seagull’s on the ground- 

They are nests, and they’re more than nests,’ he said, 

‘They are tokens I have found. 
There, where the rain-dashed briar 

Marks an empty glade, 

The blackbird’s nest is seen,’ he said, 

‘Clay-rimmed, uncunningly made. 
By shore of the inland lake, 

Where surgeless water shoves, 

The seagulls have their nests,’ he said, 

‘As low as catties’ hooves.’ 
I heard a poet say it, 

The sojourner of a night; 

His head was up to the rafter, 

Where he stood in candles’ light. 
‘Your houses are like the seagulls’ 

Nests they are scattered and low; 

Like the blackbirds’ nests in briars,’ he said, 

‘Uncunningly made even so. 
But close to the ground are reared 

The wings that have widest sway, 

And the birds that sing best in the wood,’ he said, 

‘Were reared with breasts to the clay. 
You’ve wildness I’ve turned it to song; 

You’ve strength I’ve turned it to wings; 

The welkin’s for your conquest then, 

The wood to your music rings.’ 
I heard a poet say it, 

The sojourner of a night; 

His head was up to the rafter, 

Where he stood in candles’ light.

Poem – Composed During A Storm – William Wordsworth

One who was suffering tumult in his soul, 

Yet failed to seek the sure relief of prayer, 

Went forth–his course surrendering to the care 

Of the fierce wind, while mid-day lightnings prowl 

Insidiously, untimely thunders growl; 

While trees, dim-seen, in frenzied numbers, tear 

The lingering remnant of their yellow hair, 

And shivering wolves, surprised with darkness, howl 

As if the sun were not. He raised his eye 

Soul-smitten; for, that instant, did appear 

Large space (‘mid dreadful clouds) of purest sky, 

An azure disc–shield of Tranquillity; 

Invisible, unlooked-for, minister 

Of providential goodness ever nigh!

Poem – Expostulation And Reply – William Wordsworth

“Why, William, on that old grey stone, 

Thus for the length of half a day, 

Why, William, sit you thus alone, 

And dream your time away? 
“Where are your books?–that light bequeathed 

To Beings else forlorn and blind! 

Up! up! and drink the spirit breathed 

From dead men to their kind. 
“You look round on your Mother Earth, 

As if she for no purpose bore you; 

As if you were her first-born birth, 

And none had lived before you!” 
One morning thus, by Esthwaite lake, 

When life was sweet, I knew not why, 

To me my good friend Matthew spake, 

And thus I made reply: 
“The eye–it cannot choose but see; 

We cannot bid the ear be still; 

Our bodies feel, where’er they be, 

Against or with our will. 
“Nor less I deem that there are Powers 

Which of themselves our minds impress; 

That we can feed this mind of ours 

In a wise passiveness. 
“Think you, ‘mid all this mighty sum 

Of things for ever speaking, 

That nothing of itself will come, 

But we must still be seeking? 
“–Then ask not wherefore, here, alone, 

Conversing as I may, 

I sit upon this old grey stone, 

And dream my time away,”