Poetry / Filíocht
 
 

Red in Autumn

Tipperty toes, the smallest elf,

Sat on a mushroom by himself,

Playing a little tinkling tune

Under the big round harvest moon;

And this is the song that Tipperty made

To sing to the little tune he played.

 

"Red are the hips, red are the haws,

Red and gold are the leaves that fall,

Red are the poppies in the corn,

Red berries on the rowan tall;

Red is the big round harvest moon,

And red are my new little dancing shoon"

                                           Elizabeth Gould

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The Rain

I hear leaves drinking Rain;

  I hear rich leaves on top

Giving the poor beneath

    Drop after drop;

'Tis a sweet noise to hear

These green leaves drinking near.

And when the Sun comes out,

   After this Rain shall stop,

A wondrous Light will fill

    Each dark, round drop;

I hope the Sun shines bright:

'Twill be a lovely sight. 

                          W.H. Davies

We looked out of our classroom window when the rain was coming down.

We could see it, hear it and touch it when it came into our classroom. 

There were drops of rain on a cobweb on the windowsill. 

I wandered lonely as a cloud

 

I wandered lonely as a cloud

That floats on high o'er vales and hills,

When all at once I saw a crowd,

A host, of golden daffodils;

Beside the lake, beneath the trees,

Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

 

Continuous as the stars that shine

And twinkle on the milky way,

They stretched in never-ending line

Along the margin of a bay:

Ten thousand saw I at a glance,

Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

 

The waves beside them danced, but they

Out-did the sparkling leaves in glee;

A poet could not be but gay,

In such a jocund company!

I gazed—and gazed—but little thought

What wealth the show to me had brought:

 

For oft, when on my couch I lie

In vacant or in pensive mood,

They flash upon that inward eye

Which is the bliss of solitude;

And then my heart with pleasure fills,

And dances with the daffodils.

 

                           William Wordsworth

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Night Light Tongue Twister

You've no need to light a night-light

On a light night like tonight,

For a night-light's light's a slight light, 

And tonight's a night that's light.

When a night's light, like tonight's light, 

It is really not quite right

To light night-lights with their slight lights

On a light night like tonight. 

Night Light Tongue TwisterArtist Name
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Trees

 

I think that I shall never see

A poem as lovely as a  tree.

A tree whose hungry mouth is prest

Against the earth's sweet flowing breast;

A tree that looks at God all day,

And lifts her leafy arms to pray;

A tree that may in Summer wear

A nest of robins in her hair;

Upon whose bosom snow has lain;

Who intimately lives with rain.

Poems are made by fools like me,

But only God can make a tree. 

by Joyce Kilmer. 

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Written in March

The cock is crowing,

The stream is flowing,

The small birds twitter,

The lake doth glitter

The green field sleeps in the sun;

The oldest and youngest

Are at work with the strongest;

The cattle are grazing,

Their heads never raising;

There are forty feeding like one!

Like an army defeated

The snow hath retreated,

And now doth fare ill

On the top of the bare hill;

The plowboy is whooping-anon-anon:

There's joy in the mountains;

There's life in the fountains;

Small clouds are sailing,

Blue sky prevailing;

The rain is over and gone!

William Wordsworth

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Labhair an Teanga Ghaeilge

Ó labhair an teanga Ghaeilge liom,

A chuid mo chroí is a stór,

An teanga a labhair mo mháthair liom,

In Éirinn ghlas fadó.

'Sí teanga bhinn ár sinsear í,

Án chaint is milse glór:

Ó labhair an teanga Ghaeilge liom,

Is bain dem' chroí an brón.

 

Ó labhair an teanga Ghaeilge liom,

'Sí teanga cheart na nGael:

An teanga bhinn is ársa 'tá

Le fáil ar fud an tsaoil.

A stór mo chroí is beannacht ort,

A chailín óig gan cháim,

Cá bhfuil sa saol aon teanga mar

Ár dteanga féin le fail?

 

Ní fios cé a chum.   

 

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Anseo i Lár an Ghleanna

Bhí an tAifreann léite is each rud déanta,

Bhí pobal Dé ag scaipeadh

Nuair chualamar gleo ag teacht 'nar dtreo

Anseo i lár an ghleanna.

"Cén gleo é siúd ag teacht 'nár dtreo?"

"Sin torann cos na gcapall."

"Seo chugainn saighdiúirí arm an rí

Anseo i lár an ghleanna"

Do chas an seanfhear Brian Ó Laoi

Is shiúil i dtreo an tsagairt,

Is chuir sé cogar ina chluais

Anseo i lár an ghleanna.

"Ó a Athair Seán, Ó a Athair Seán,

Seo chugainn na cótaí dearga;

Ní féidir leatsa teitheadh anois

Anseo i lár an ghleanna. 

"Tá tusa óg, a Athair Seán,

Táim féin i ndeireadh beatha;

Déan malairt éadaigh liom anois

Anseo i lár an ghleanna."

Do deineadh malairt gan rómhoill

I gcoinne thoil an tsagairt,

Is shil sé deora móra bróin

Anseo i lár an ghleanna. 

Do ghabh na Sasanaigh Brian Ó Laoi,

Is d'imigh saor an sagart;

Do chroch siad Brian ar chrann caol ard

Anseo i lár an ghleanna. 

Ach mairfidh cáil an tseanfhir áigh

Faid fhásfaidh féar ar thalamh;

Beidh a scéal á ríomh ag fearaibh Fáil,

Is anseo i lár an ghleanna. 

Seán Mac Fheorais (1915-1984)

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