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Ireland Calling Me Home Sonnets
Ireland Calling Me Home Sonnets
Ireland Calling Me Home Sonnets
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Ireland Calling Me Home Sonnets

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Sometimes we all received messages in our dreams. My dreams lately is to study the culture of my Irish heritage. As I was researching I came across beautiful sonnets of the 1800's poets and thought such art should not be lost. So I gather them together, along with some knowledge and links to publish a short books with links to have readers be able to discover these lost sonnets and cherish them with your loved ones. Enjoy.

LanguageEnglish
Release dateMar 17, 2012
ISBN9781476494647
Ireland Calling Me Home Sonnets
Author

Susanna C. Mahoney

I am a spiritual person on a exploration of answers. I write short stories about God and Holy Warriors, teenagers who are enlisted into the fight against evil. I am experimenting with different genres and enjoy writing. I like to help others and write to escape to stimulate my mind as an outlet to bring positive energy to the universe. a supernatural being is the Alpha, the Omega and has messages for His children no matter what faith they are. Open your mind to the spiritual realm, you may be surprise by the answers waiting to Be unraveled

Read more from Susanna C. Mahoney

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    Book preview

    Ireland Calling Me Home Sonnets - Susanna C. Mahoney

    Ireland Is Calling Me Home

    Published By Susanna Catherine Mahoney

    Cpoyright by © Susanna Catherine Mahoney

    Smashwords Edition License Notes

    This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author's work.

    Sonnets of the earlier 1800’s of Ireland’s Poets and cultural history with links.*****

    A sonnet is fundamentally a dialectical construct which allows the poet to examine the nature and ramifications of two usually contrastive ideas, emotions, states ...A sonnet is one of several forms of poetry that originate in Europe, mainly Provence and Italy. A sonnet commonly has 14 lines

    Tis the part of Ireland my soul yeans for

    Sonnets from Ireland

    Eleanor Alexander

    Now

    For me, my friend, no grave-side vigil keep

    With tears that memory and remorse might fill;

    Give me your tenderest laughter earth-bound still,

    And when I die you shall not want to weep.

    No epitaph for me with virtues deep

    Punctured in marble pitiless and chill:

    But when play time is over, if you will,

    The songs that soothe beloved babes to sleep.

    No lenten lilies on my breast and brow

    Be laid when I am silent; roses red,

    And golden roses bring me here instead,

    That if you love or bear me I may know;

    I may not know, nor care, when I am dead:

    Give me your songs, and flowers, and laughter now.

    A Day-Dream's Reflection

    (On the Sunny Shore.)

    Chequer'd with woven shadows as I lay

    Among the grass, blinking the watery gleam,

    I saw an Echo-Spirit in his bay

    Most idly floating in the noontide beam.

    Slow heaved his filmy skiff, and fell, with sway

    Of ocean's giant pulsing, and the Dream,

    Buoyed like the young moon on a level stream

    Of greenish vapour at decline of day,

    Swam airily, watching the distant flocks

    Of sea-gulls, whilst a foot in careless sweep

    Touched the clear-trembling cool with tiny shocks,

    Faint-circling; till at last he dropt asleep,

    Lull'd by the hush-song of the glittering deep,

    Lap-lapping drowsily the heated rocks.

    William Allingham (1824-1889)

    In a Spring Grove

    Here the white-ray'd anemone is born,

    Wood-sorrel, and the varnish'd buttercup;

    And primrose in its purfled green swathed up,

    Pallid and sweet round every budding thorn,

    Gray ash, and beech with rusty leaves outworn.

    Here, too the darting linnet hath her nest

    In the blue-lustred holly, never shorn,

    Whose partner cheers her little

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