bsh1 Memorial Profile Pick of the Week No. 19- SLAINTE!

Author: oromagi

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oromagi
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The Lake Isle of Innisfree

I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree,
And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made;
Nine bean-rows will I have there, a hive for the honey-bee,
And live alone in the bee-loud glade.

And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow,
Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the cricket sings;
There midnight’s all a glimmer, and noon a purple glow,
And evening full of the linnet’s wings.

I will arise and go now, for always night and day
I hear lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore;
While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements grey,
I hear it in the deep heart’s core.

-WB Yeats

oromagi
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Bogland

We have no prairies
To slice a big sun at evening--
Everywhere the eye concedes to
Encrouching horizon,

Is wooed into the cyclops' eye
Of a tarn. Our unfenced country
Is bog that keeps crusting
Between the sights of the sun.

They've taken the skeleton
Of the Great Irish Elk
Out of the peat, set it up
An astounding crate full of air.

Butter sunk under
More than a hundred years
Was recovered salty and white.
The ground itself is kind, black butter

Melting and opening underfoot,
Missing its last definition
By millions of years.
They'll never dig coal here,

Only the waterlogged trunks
Of great firs, soft as pulp.
Our pioneers keep striking
Inwards and downwards,

Every layer they strip
Seems camped on before.
The bogholes might be Atlantic seepage.
The wet centre is bottomless.

-Seamus Heaney
Dr.Franklin
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Good post
Dr.Franklin
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Good post
oromagi
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Yes, the newspapers were right: snow was general all over Ireland. It was falling softly upon the Bog of Allen and, further westwards, softly falling into the dark mutinous Shannon waves. It was falling too upon every part of the lonely churchyard where Michael Furey lay buried. It lay thickly drifted on the crooked crosses and headstones, on the spears of the little gate, on the barren thorns. His soul swooned slowly as he heard the snow falling faintly through the universe and faintly falling, like the descent of their last end, upon all the living and the dead.

-James Joyce
oromagi
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Requiscat

Tread lightly, she is near
    Under the snow,
Speak gently, she can hear
    The daisies grow.


All her bright golden hair
    Tarnished with rust,
She that was young and fair
    Fallen to dust.


Lily-like, white as snow,
    She hardly knew
She was a woman, so
    Sweetly she grew.


Coffin-board, heavy stone,
    Lie on her breast,
I vex my heart alone
    She is at rest.


Peace, Peace, she cannot hear
    Lyre or sonnet,
All my life’s buried here,
    Heap earth upon it.

-Oscar Wilde

skittlez09
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@oromagi
whose bsh1? 

sorry kinda new
oromagi
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@skittlez09
An institution from the old debate.org who served as Chief Moderator here during its first year.  I came to this site because of bsh1's excellence as moderator.

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@oromagi
ah thanks