Hic Yet surely there are men who have made their art Out of no tragic war; lovers of life, Impulsive men, that look for happiness, And sing when they have found it. Ille No, not sing, For those that love the world serve it in action, Grow rich, popular, and full of influence; And...
As down the street she wambled slow, She had not got a place to go: She had not got a place to fall And rest herself—no place at all. She stumped along and wagged her pate And said a thing was desperate. Her face was screwed and wrinkled tight Just like a...Read More
"These lines were sent to me by William Smith O’Brien, the evening of Monday, October 8, 1848, the day on which sentence of death was passed upon him." -THOMAS FRANCIS MEAGHER (October 12, 1848) Never despair! Let the feeble in spirit Bow like the willow that stoops...Read More