James Stephens

James Stephens

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James Stephens (9 February 1880[1] – 26 December 1950) was an Irish novelist and poet.
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The Spring In Ireland 1916

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Do not forget my charge I beg of you ;
That of what flow'rs you find of fairest
And sweetest odor you do gather
Are best of all the best — a fragrant rose,
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The Daisies

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IN
HE 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
We did not laugh and we did not speak As we wandered happily to and fro; I kissed my dear on e...
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When the Leaves Fall

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EN the leaves fall off the trees Everybody walks on them :
Once they had a time of ease High above, and every breeze Used to stay and talk to them
Then they were so debonair As they fluttered up and down ;
Dancing in the sunny air,
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Righteous Anger

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HE 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
That parboiled imp, with the hardest jaw...
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The Wind

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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 And said that he'd kill and kill,
And so he will and so he will
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The Goat Paths

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The crooked paths go every way Upon the hill — they wind about Through the heather in and out Of the quiet sunniness
And there the goats, day after day, Stray in sunny quietness,
Cropping here and cropping there, As they pause and turn a...
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The Lonely God

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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 He paced along the grassy paths and through The silent trees, and where the flo...
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Insurrections

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I saw God
Do you doubt it
Do you dare to doubt it
I saw the Almighty Man
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In The Poppy Field

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Mad Patsy said, he said to me,
That every morning he could
An angel walking on the sky;
Across the sunny skies of
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Westland Row

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Every Sunday there's a throng Of pretty girls, who trot along In a pious, breathless state (They are nearly always late) To the Chapel, where they pray For the sins of Saturday
They have frocks of white and blue, Yellow sashes they have too, ...
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The Shell

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ND then I pressed the shell Close to my ear And listened well,
And straightway like a bell Came low and clear The slow, sad murmur of the distant seas,
Whipped by an icy breeze Upon a shore Wind-swept and desolate
It was a sunless s...
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The Fifteen Acres

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II cling and
On a branch, or
Through the cool, clear hush of Morning,
O
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The Ancient Elf

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I am the maker,
The builder, the breaker,
The eagle-winged helper,
The speedy forsaker
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Hate

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My enemy came nigh,
And I Stared fiercely in his face
My lips went writhing back in a grimace,
And stern I watched him with a narrow eye
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In The Cool Of The Evening

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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 Till all its whispers spread into the sound Of a dull roar
Lie cl...
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I heard a bird at dawn

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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;
But I didn't listen to him, For he didn't sing to me
I didn't listen to him, For he didn't sing to me That the dew was on t...
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