James Stephens was an Irish novelist and poet.
James Stephens produced many retellings of Irish myths and fairy tales. His retellings are marked by a rare combination of humor and lyricism (Deirdre, and Irish Fairy Tales are often especially praise). He also wrote several original novels (Crock of Gold, Etched in Moonlight, Demi-Gods) based loosely on Irish fairy tales. "Crock of Gold," in particular, achieved enduring popularity and was reprinted frequently throughout the author's lifetime.
Stephens began his career as a poet with the tutelage of "Æ" (George William Russell). His first book of poems, "Insurrections," was published during ... more »
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James Stephens Poems
In The Poppy Field
Mad Patsy said, he said to me, That every morning he could see An angel walking on the sky; Across the sunny skies of morn
My enemy came nigh, And I Stared fiercely in his face. My lips went writhing back in a grimace,
I heard a bird at dawn
I heard a bird at dawn Singing sweetly on a tree, That the dew was on the lawn, And the wind was on the lea;
The Lonely God
So Eden was deserted, and at eve Into the quiet place God came to grieve. His face was sad, His hands hung slackly down Along his robe; too sorrowful to frown
The Ancient Elf
I am the maker, The builder, the breaker, The eagle-winged helper, The speedy forsaker!
I hear a sudden cry of pain! There is a rabbit in a snare: Now I hear the cry again, But I cannot tell from where.
In The Cool Of The Evening
I thought I heard Him calling. Did you hear A sound, a little sound? My curious ear Is dinned with flying noises, and the tree Goes -- whisper, whisper, whisper silently
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.
The wind stood up and gave a shout. He whistled on his fingers and Kicked the withered leaves about And thumped the branches with his hand
The Spring In Ireland: 1916
I Do not forget my charge I beg of you ; That of what flow'rs you find of fairest hue
The night was creeping on the ground; She crept and did not make a sound Until she reached the tree, and then She covered it, and sole again
The Goat Paths
The crooked paths go every way Upon the hill - they wind about Through the heather in and out Of the quiet sunniness.
The Glass Of Beer
The lanky hank of a she in the inn over there Nearly killed me for asking the loan of a glass of beer: May the devil grip the whey-faced slut by the hair And beat bad manners out of her skin for a year.
The lanky hank of a she in the inn over there Nearly killed me for asking the loan of a glass of beer: May the devil grip the whey-faced slut by the hair, And beat bad manners out of her skin for a year.
(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)
In The Poppy Field
Mad Patsy said, he said to me,
That every morning he could see
An angel walking on the sky;
Across the sunny skies of morn
He threw great handfuls far and nigh
Of poppy seed among the corn;
And then, he said, the angels run
To see the poppies in the sun.
A poppy is a devil weed,
I said to him - he disagreed;
He said the devil had no hand
In spreading flowers tall and fair
Through corn and rye and meadow land,
by garth and barrow everywhere:
The devil has not any flower,
But only money in his power.
And then he stretched out in the ...