James Stephens was an Irish novelist and poet.
James Stephens produced many retellings of Irish myths and fairy tales. His retellings are marked by a rare combination of humor and lyricism (Deirdre, and Irish Fairy Tales are often especially praise). He also wrote several original novels (Crock of Gold, Etched in Moonlight, Demi-Gods) based loosely on Irish fairy tales. "Crock of Gold," in particular, achieved enduring popularity and was reprinted frequently throughout the author's lifetime.
Stephens began his career as a poet with the tutelage of "Æ" (George William Russell). His first book of poems, "Insurrections," was published during ... more »
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James Stephens Poems
My enemy came nigh, And I Stared fiercely in his face. My lips went writhing back in a grimace,
In The Poppy Field
Mad Patsy said, he said to me, That every morning he could see An angel walking on the sky; Across the sunny skies of morn
The Ancient Elf
I am the maker, The builder, the breaker, The eagle-winged helper, The speedy forsaker!
I heard a bird at dawn
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;
The Lonely God
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
I hear a sudden cry of pain! There is a rabbit in a snare: Now I hear the cry again, But I cannot tell from where.
In the 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.
The Spring In Ireland: 1916
I Do not forget my charge I beg of you ; That of what flow'rs you find of fairest hue
The night was creeping on the ground; She crept and did not make a sound Until she reached the tree, and then She covered it, and sole again
In The Cool Of The Evening
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
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
Come with me, under my coat, And we will drink our fill Of the milk of the white goat, Or wine, if it be thy will;
The Glass Of Beer
The 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.
The Goat Paths
The crooked paths go every way Upon the hill - they wind about Through the heather in and out Of the quiet sunniness.
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(26 April 1564 - 23 April 1616)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(31 May 1819 - 26 March 1892)
(16 August 1920 – 9 March 1994)
My enemy came nigh,
Stared fiercely in his face.
My lips went writhing back in a grimace,
And stern I watched him with a narrow eye.
Then, as I turned away, my enemy,
That bitter heart and savage, said to me:
"Some day, when this is past,
When all the arrows that we have are cast,
We may ask one another why we hate,
And fail to find a story to relate.
It may seem then to us a mystery
That we should hate each other."
Thus said he,
And did not turn away,
Waiting to hear what I might have to say,
But I ...