Dora Sigerson Shorter
Dora Sigerson (1866–1918) was an Irish poet, who after her marriage in 1895 wrote under the name Dora Sigerson Shorter. She was born in Dublin, Ireland, the daughter of George Sigerson, a surgeon and writer, and Hester (née Varian) also a writer. She was a major figure of the Irish Literary revival, publishing many collections of poetry from 1893. Her friends included Katharine Tynan, a noted ... more »
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Dora Sigerson Shorter Poems
I saw Winter 'neath a spindle tree, She plucked berries bright to crown her head. She was singing little robin's song
A Ballad Of Marjorie
'What ails you that you look so pale, O fisher of the sea?' ''Tis for a mournful tale I own, Fair maiden Marjorie.'
The Watcher in the Wood
Deep in the wood's recesses cool I see the fairy dancers glide, In cloth of gold, in gown of green, My lord and lady side by side.
A Ballad Of The Wailing Ghost
As I between the dusk and dark Walked down by Hampton Towers, I strayed upon the haunted path In the forbidden hours.
The Little Brother
O brother, brother, come down to the crags by the bay, Come down to the caves where I play; For oh! I saw on the rocks, asleep,
A Child’s Song
The starlings they have come to town, With polka dots on their robes of brown; They sit a crowd on the old plane tree,
The Sinking Ship
The ship is sinking, come ye one and all. Stand fast and so this weakness overhaul, Come ye strong hands and cheery voices call,
The Dead Wife
Thrice turned she in her narrow bed, His tears disturbed her rest; She kissed the little babe that lay So still upon her breast.
My Lady’s Slipper
A TRUE STORY I I am a man who hath known trouble, O'Ruarc of the Lake.
Now God between us and all harm, For I to-night have seen A banshee in the shadow pass Along the dark boreen.
The Golden Apple
She saw on the far bank a golden apple, A glowing apple, poor little Eve, Between ran the river so darkly dapple,
The Three Trees
The oak is a brave tree that groweth in the wood— The oak, and the pine, and the aspen tree—
The Wild Geese
I walked by Esknahinny at the waning of the moon, As star by star came peeping to some celestial tune. The little waves crept to me to call and fall away,
A Lost Flower
Droop all the flowers in my garden, All their fair heads hang low; For rose, their fairest companion, Never again will they know.
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(26 April 1564 - 23 April 1616)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(31 May 1819 - 26 March 1892)
(31 October 1795 – 23 February 1821)
I saw Winter 'neath a spindle tree,
She plucked berries bright to crown her head.
She was singing little robin's song
While wild beech-leaves round and round her spread.
I ran home into my little house,
Pulled to the shutters, barred up the door;
I knelt down to blow the fire to flame,
Great dark shadows danced upon the floor.
Long-legged shadows came from corners drear,
Leaped up white walls, fell, and climbed again.
I hear North Wind pushing at the gate,
I won't open, not for wind or rain.
Oh, run home, wee ones, lest the whirling leaves
Take ye far ...