The Shadow

THERE is a shadow on the sunny wall,
Dark and forbidding, like a bode of ill;
Go, drive it thence. Alas, such shadows fall
From real things, nor may be moved at will.

There is a shadow on my heart to-day,
A cloudy grief condensing to a tear:
Alas, I cannot drive its gloom away—
Some sin or sorrow casts the shapeless fear.

poem by John Boyle O'Reilly
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Under the River

CLEAR and bright, from the snowy height,
The joyous stream to the plain descended:
Rich sands of gold were washed and rolled
To the turbid marsh where its pure life ended.

From stainless snow to the moor below
The heart like the brook has a waning mission
The buried dream in life's sluggish stream
Is the golden sand of our young ambition.

poem by John Boyle O'Reilly
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The Lure

“WHAT bait do you use,' said a Saint to the Devil,
When you fish where the souls of men abound?'
'Well, for special tastes,' said the King of Evil,
'Gold and Fame are the best I've found.'
'But for common use?' asked the Saint. 'Ah, then,'
Said the Demon, 'I angle for Man, not men,
And a thing I hate
Is to change my bait,
So I fish with a woman the whole year round.'

poem by John Boyle O'Reilly
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My Mother's Memory

There is one bright star in heaven
Ever shining in my night;
God to me one guide has given
Like the sailor's beacon light,
Set on every shoal of danger
Sending out its warning ray
To the homebound weary stranger
Looking for the land-locked bay.
In my farthest, wildest wand'rings
I have turned me to that love,
As a diver, neath the water,
Turns to watch the light above.

poem by John Boyle O'Reilly
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A Year

IN the Spring we see:
Then the buds are dear to us—immature bosoms like lilies swell.
In the Summer we live:
When bright eyes are near to us, oh, the sweet stories the false lips tell!
In the Autumn we love:
When the honey is dripping, deep eyes moisten and soft breasts heave;
In the Winter we think:
With the sands fast slipping, we smile and sigh for the days we leave.

poem by John Boyle O'Reilly
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Inscription to Western Australia

Nation of sun and sin,
Thy flowers and crimes are red,
And thy heart is sore within
While the glory crowns thy head.
Land of the songless birds,
What was thine ancient crime,
Burning through lapse of time
Like a prophet' s cursing words!

Aloes and myrrh and tears
Mix in thy bitter wine: -
Drink, while the cup is thine,
Drink, for the draught is sign
Of thy reign in the coming years.

poem by John Boyle O'Reilly
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Liberty

I am Liberty-God's daughter!
My symbols-a law and a torch;
Not a sword to threaten slaughter,
Nor a flame to dazzle or scorch;
But a light that the world may see,
And a truth that shall make men free.

I am the sister of Duty,
And I am the sister of Faith;
To-day adored for my beauty,
To-morrow led forth for death.
I am she whom ages prayed for;
Heroes suffered undismayed for;
Whom the martyrs were betrayed for.

poem by John Boyle O'Reilly
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At Best

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The faithful helm commands the keel,
From port to port fair breezes blow;
But the ship must sail the convex sea,
Nor may she straighter go.

So, man to man; in fair accord,
On thought and will the winds may wait;
But the world will bend the passing word,
Though its shortest course be straight.

From soul to soul the shortest line
At best will bended be:
The ship that holds the straightest course

[...] Read more

poem by John Boyle O'Reilly
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What is Good

“What is the real good?'
I asked in musing mood.

Order, said the law court;
Knowledge, said the school;
Truth, said the wise man;
Pleasure, said the fool;
Love, said the maiden;
Beauty, said the page;
Freedom, said the dreamer;
Home, said the sage;
Fame, said the soldier;
Equity, the seer;—

Spake my heart full sadly:
'The answer is not here.'

Then within my bosom
Softly this I heard:
'Each heart holds the secret:

[...] Read more

poem by John Boyle O'Reilly
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At School

The bees are in the meadow
And the swallows in the sky;
The cattle in the shadow
Watch the river running by.
The wheat is hardly stirring;
The heavy ox-team lags;
The dragon-fly is whirring
Through the yellow-blossomed flag.
And down beside the river,
Where the trees lean o'er the pool,
Where the shadows reach the quiver
A boy has come to school.
His teachers are the swallow
And the river and the trees;
His lessons are the shallows
And the flowers and the bees.

poem by John Boyle O'Reilly
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