Katharine Tynan

[Katharine Tynan Hinkson, Katharine Tynan-Hinkson, Katharine Hinkson-Tynan] (23 January 1861 - 2 Apirl 1931 / 23 January 1861 – 2 April 1931)

Katharine Tynan Poems

1. Winter Sunset 4/14/2010
2. Wings In The Night 4/14/2010
3. Wild Geese 4/14/2010
4. When You Come Home 4/14/2010
5. What Turned The Germans Back 4/14/2010
6. What She Said 4/14/2010
7. Vigil 4/14/2010
8. Unhousel'D, Unanointed, Unanel'D 4/14/2010
9. Unfit 4/14/2010
10. Turn O' The Year 4/14/2010
11. To Two Bereaved 4/14/2010
12. To The Others 4/14/2010
13. To R A A 4/14/2010
14. To One In Grief 4/14/2010
15. They Who Return 4/14/2010
16. The Young Soldier 4/14/2010
17. The Young Mother 4/14/2010
18. The Wind That Shakes The Barley 1/3/2003
19. The Wild Geese 4/14/2010
20. The Widow 4/14/2010
21. The Weeping Babe 1/3/2003
22. The Watchers 4/14/2010
23. The Wall Between 4/14/2010
24. The Vision: (Katia: Easter Sunday, 1916) 4/14/2010
25. The Vision 4/14/2010
26. The Vestal 4/14/2010
27. The Trust 4/14/2010
28. The Truce Of God 4/14/2010
29. The Test 4/14/2010
30. The Temple 4/14/2010
31. The Summons 4/14/2010
32. The Secret Foe 4/14/2010
33. The Sad Spring 4/14/2010
34. The Riders 4/14/2010
35. The Refuge 4/14/2010
36. The Refreshment 4/14/2010
37. The Promise 4/14/2010
38. The Predestined 4/14/2010
39. The Perfect Playmate 4/14/2010
40. The Open Road 4/14/2010
Best Poem of Katharine Tynan

Any Woman

I am the pillars of the house;
The keystone of the arch am I.
Take me away, and roof and wall
Would fall to ruin me utterly.

I am the fire upon the hearth,
I am the light of the good sun,
I am the heat that warms the earth,
Which else were colder than a stone.

At me the children warm their hands;
I am their light of love alive.
Without me cold the hearthstone stands,
Nor could the precious children thrive.

I am the twist that holds together
The children in its sacred ring,
Their knot of love, from whose close tether
No lost child goes ...

Read the full of Any Woman

Nymphs

Where are ye now, O beautiful girls of the mountain,
Oreads all ?
Nothing at all stirs here save the drip of the fountain;
Answers our call
Only the heart-glad thrush, in the Vale of Thrushes;
Stirs in the brake
But the dew-bright ear of the hare in his couch of rushes
Listening, awake.

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