Lady Jane Wilde
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Lady Jane Wilde Poems
The Famine Year
Weary men, what reap ye? —Golden corn for the stranger. What sow ye? —Human corses that wait for the avenger. Fainting forms, hunger‐stricken, what see you in the offing? Stately ships to bear our food away, amid the stranger's scoffing.
Tristan And Isolde. The Love Sin.
None, unless the saints above, Knew the secret of their love; For with calm and stately grace Isolde held her queenly place,
“A Million A Decade!” Calmly and cold The units are read by our statesmen sage; Little they think of a Nation old, Fading away from History’s page; Outcast weeds by a desolate sea Fallen leaves of Humanity.
Why Weepest Thou?
Why weepest thou? A few more hours dreary, And thy spirit, the world weary Beneath the icy hand of death must bow;
A Lament For The Potato
There is woe, there is clamour, in our desolated land, And wailing lamentation from a famine‐stricken band; And weeping are the multitudes in sorrow and despair, For the green fields of Munster lying desolate and bare. Woe for Lorc’s ancient kingdom, sunk in slavery and grief; Plundered, ruined, are our gentry, our people, and their Chief;
La Via Dolorosa
I wander here, I wander there, Through the desert of life, all wearily; No joy on earth for the pilgrim soul On, on for ever drearily; O’er the mountain height, In the tempest night, Through the mist and the gloom,
There was a star that lit my life It hath set to rise no more, For Heaven, in mercy, withdrew the light I fain would have knelt before.
The Old Man's Blessing
Mine eye is dull, my hair is white, This arm is powerless for the fight, Alas! alas! the battle’s van Suits not a weak and aged man. Thine eye is bright, thine arm is strong— ’Tis Youth must right our country’s wrong. Arise, my son, and proudly bear This sword that I was wont to wear; Firm grasp the hilt, fling down the sheath A thousand years vears their wrongs bequeath
Stand on the heights, O Poet! nor come down Amid the wise old serpents, coiled around The Tree of Knowledge in Academics. The Poet’s place is by the Tree of Life, Whose fruit turns men to Gods, and makes them live, Not seeking buried treasure in the tombs.
France In '93
Ark! the onward heavy tread Hark! the voices rude ’Tis the famished cry for Bread From a wildered multitude.
The Dying Christian
By the streams of living water, Rest, my daughter. Soul, I would not stay thy flight;
Sympathies With The Universal
The Angel of the Universe, for ever stands he there Within the planet circle, the grand Hierophant of prayer; His altar is the eternal sun, his light its flames of gold, And the stars are his rosary, through the hands of angels rolled. Down, down, throughout the Infinite, they’re falling, world on world; Like coral beads from praying hands, the planet beads are hurled. Thus, for unnumbered ages on their diamond string they run, The circling planet rosary from Uranus to the Sun.
Dedication To Ireland
My country, wounded to the heart, Could I but flash along thy soul Electric power to rive apart The thunder‐clouds that round thee roll, And, by my burning words, uplift Thy life from out Death’s icy drift, Till the full splendours of our age Shone round thee for thy heritage As Miriam’s, by the Red Sea strand Clashing proud cymbals, so my hand Would strike thy harp, Loved Ireland!
An Appeal To Ireland
The sin of our race is upon us, The pitiless, cruel disdain Of brother for brother, tho’ coiling Round both is the one fatal chain; And aimless and reckless and useless Our lives pass along to the grave In tumults of words that bewilder, And the conflicts of slave with slave.
Comments about Lady Jane Wilde
(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)
(16 August 1920 – 9 March 1994)
The Famine Year
Weary men, what reap ye? —Golden corn for the stranger.
What sow ye? —Human corses that wait for the avenger.
Fainting forms, hunger‐stricken, what see you in the offing?
Stately ships to bear our food away, amid the stranger's scoffing.
There's a proud array of soldiers—what do they round your door?
They guard our masters' granaries from the thin hands of the poor.
Pale mothers, wherefore weeping? —Would to God that we were dead
Our children swoon before us, and we cannot give them bread.
Little children, tears are strange upon your infant faces,
God meant you...