John Boyle O'Reilly
John Boyle O'Reilly was an Irish-born poet, journalist and fiction writer. As a youth in Ireland, he was a member of the Irish Republican Brotherhood, or Fenians, for which he was transported to Western Australia. After escaping to the United States, he became a prominent spokesperson for the Irish community and culture, through his editorship of the Boston newspaper The Pilot, his prolific writing, and his lecture tours.
O'Reilly was born at Dowth Castle, County Meath, near Drogheda in Ireland at the onset of the Great Irish Famine. Ireland was at that time a part of the United Kingdom, and many Irish people bitterly resented British rule. There was a strong... more »
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John Boyle O'Reilly Poems
A White Rose
THE red rose whispers of passion, And the white rose breathes of love; O, the red rose is a falcon, And the white rose is a dove.
THE world was made when a man was born, He must taste for himself the forbidden springs; He can never take warning from old-fashion'd things; He must fight as a boy, he must drink as a youth,
LOVE is a plant with double root, And of strange, elastic power: Men's minds are divided in naming the fruit, But a kiss is only the flower.
A Builder's Lesson
'HOW shall I a habit break?' As you did that habit make. As you gathered, you must lose; As you yielded, now refuse.
A Lost Friend
MY friend he was; my friend from all the rest; With childlike faith he oped to me his breast; No door was locked on altar, grave or grief; No weakness veiled, concealed no disbelief;
An Old Picture
THERE are times when a dream delicious Steals into a musing hour, Like a face with love capricious That peeps from a woodland bower;
A Message of Peace
THERE once was a pirate, greedy and bold, Who ravaged for gain, and saved the spoils; Till his coffers were bursting with bloodstained gold, And millions of captives bore his toils.
A MAN is not the slave of circumstance, Or need not be, but builder and dictator; He makes his own events, not time nor chance; Their logic his: not creature, but creator.
What is Good
“What is the real good?' I asked in musing mood. Order, said the law court; Knowledge, said the school;
A Dead Man
Trapper died—our hero—and we grieved; In every heart in camp the sorrow stirred. 'His soul was red!' the Indian cried, bereaved; 'A white man, he!' the grim old Yankee's word.
NOR War nor Peace, forever, old and young, But Strength my theme, whose song is yet unsung, The People's Strength, the deep alluring dream Of truths that seethe below the truths that seem
A Song For Soldiers
WHAT song is best for the soldiers? Take no heed of the words, nor choose yon the style of the story; Let it burst out from the heart like a spring from the womb of a mountain, Natural, clear, resistless, leaping its way to the levels;
The Exile of the Gael
IT is sweet to rejoice for a day,— For a day that is reached at last! It is well for wanderers in new lands, Slow climbers toward a lofty mountain pass
(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)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
(31 May 1819 - 26 March 1892)
(31 October 1795 – 23 February 1821)
A White Rose
THE red rose whispers of passion,
And the white rose breathes of love;
O, the red rose is a falcon,
And the white rose is a dove.
But I send you a cream-white rosebud
With a flush on its petal tips;
For the love that is purest and sweetest
Has a kiss of desire on the lips