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

81. The Call 4/14/2010
82. The Children Of Lir 1/3/2003
83. The Choice 4/14/2010
84. The Colonists 4/14/2010
85. The Comrades 4/14/2010
86. The Convent Garden 4/14/2010
87. The Crown 4/14/2010
88. The Dead Coach 4/14/2010
89. The Dear Brown Head 4/14/2010
90. The Deserted 4/14/2010
91. The Doves 1/3/2003
92. The Dream: (For My Father) 4/14/2010
93. The End Of The Day 1/3/2003
94. The Father 4/14/2010
95. The Fields Of France 4/14/2010
96. The Foggy Dew 1/3/2003
97. The Garden 4/14/2010
98. The Gardener 4/14/2010
99. The Golden Boy 4/14/2010
100. The Great Chance 4/14/2010
101. The Great May 4/14/2010
102. The Great Mercy 4/14/2010
103. The Great Sorrow 4/14/2010
104. The Heart Of A Boy 4/14/2010
105. The Heroes 4/14/2010
106. The Image 4/14/2010
107. The Last Parting 4/14/2010
108. The Last Question: (For B. A. Bingham) 4/14/2010
109. The Legend Of St. Austin And The Child 1/3/2003
110. The Little Flock 4/14/2010
111. The Little Old Woman 4/14/2010
112. The Long Vacation 4/14/2010
113. The Lowlands Of Flanders 4/14/2010
114. The Mother Of Three 4/14/2010
115. The New Recruit 4/14/2010
116. The Nurse 1/3/2003
117. The Old Love 4/14/2010
118. The Old Soldier 4/14/2010
119. The Only Child 1/3/2003
120. The Only Son 4/14/2010
Best Poem of Katharine Tynan

A Song Of Spring

The Spring comes slowly up this way,
Slowly, slowly,
Under a snood of hodden grey.

The black and white for her array,
Slowly, slowly,
The Spring comes slowly up this way.

Where is her green that was so gay?
Slowly, slowly,
The Spring comes slowly up this way.

Unto a world too sick for May,
Slowly, slowly,
The Spring comes slowly up this way.

Where are the lads that used to play?
Slowly, slowly,
The Spring comes slowly up this way.

She has no heart for holiday,
Slowly, slowly,
The Spring comes slowly up this way.

The ...

Read the full of A Song Of Spring

The Foggy Dew

A splendid place is London, with golden store,
For them that have the heart and hope and youth galore;
But mournful are its streets to me, I tell you true,
For I'm longing sore for Ireland in the foggy dew.

The sun he shines all day here, so fierce and fine,
With never a wisp of mist at all to dim his shine;
The sun he shines all day here from skies of blue:
He hides his face in Ireland in the foggy dew.

[Hata Bildir]