John Todhunter was an Irish poet and playwright who wrote seven volumes of poetry, and several plays.
Todhunter was born in Dublin, the eldest son of Thomas Harvey Todhunter, a Quaker merchant of English origin. He and was educated at Quaker schools in York and Mountmellick. He attended Trinity College Medical School, where he studied medicine. While at Trinity, Todhunter won the Vice-Chancellor's prize for English Verse 1864, 1865 and 1866, and the Gold Medal of the Philosophical Society 1866 for an essay. He also clerked for William Stokes while studying. Todhunter received his Bachelor of Medicine in 1867, and his Doctorate of Medicine degree in ... more »
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John Todhunter Poems
Green, in the wizard arms Of the foam-bearded Atlantic, An isle of old enchantment, A melancholy isle,
O, you plant the pain in my heart with your wistful eyes, Girl of my choice, Maureen! Will you drive me mad for the kisses your shy, sweet mouth denies, Maureen?
There's a glade in Aghadoe, Aghadoe, Aghadoe, There 's a green and silent glade in Aghadoe, Where we met, my love and I, Love's fair planet in the sky, O'er that sweet and silent glade in Aghadoe.
The Black Knight
1. A beaten and a baffled man, My life drags lamely day by day,
A June Day
The very spirit of summer breathes to-day, Here where I sun me in a dreamy mood, And laps the sultry leas, and seems to brood Tenderly o'er those hazed hills far away.
What means this mighty chant, wherein its wail Of some intolerable woe, grown strong With sense of more intolerable wrong Swells to a stern victorious march--a gale
1. On his cross still hangs the Saviour, Bears our sins in dreadful sum,
Comments about John Todhunter
(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)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
(31 May 1819 - 26 March 1892)
(31 October 1795 – 23 February 1821)
Green, in the wizard arms
Of the foam-bearded Atlantic,
An isle of old enchantment,
A melancholy isle,
Enchanted and dreaming lies;
And there, by Shannon's flowing,
In the moonlight, spectre-thin,
The spectre Erin sits.
An aged desolation,
She sits by old Shannon's flowing,
A mother of many children,
Of children exiled and dead,
In her home, with bent head, homeless,
Clasping her knees she sits,
And at her keen the fairy-grass
Trembles on dun and barrow;
Around the foot of her ancient crosses
The grave-grass shakes...