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. The Legend Of St. Austin And The Child 1/3/2003
2. The Old Soldier 4/14/2010
3. The Promise 4/14/2010
4. Starling 4/14/2010
5. Palestine: 1917 4/14/2010
6. New Heaven 4/14/2010
7. Of St. Francis And The Ass 4/14/2010
8. The Little Flock 4/14/2010
9. The Little Old Woman 4/14/2010
10. The Truce Of God 4/14/2010
11. The Vision: (Katia: Easter Sunday, 1916) 4/14/2010
12. Recompense: (For Lord Kilhacken) 4/14/2010
13. Pilgrims To The East 4/14/2010
14. Salutation 4/14/2010
15. To One In Grief 4/14/2010
16. The Young Mother 4/14/2010
17. They Who Return 4/14/2010
18. Telling The Bees: (For Edward Tennant) 4/14/2010
19. The Test 4/14/2010
20. The Only Son 4/14/2010
21. Of An Orchard 4/14/2010
22. Missing 4/14/2010
23. No Man's Land 4/14/2010
24. Noel 4/14/2010
25. The Vision 4/14/2010
26. The Refuge 4/14/2010
27. The Riders 4/14/2010
28. The Predestined 4/14/2010
29. Riding Home 4/14/2010
30. The Wild Geese 4/14/2010
31. The Young Soldier 4/14/2010
32. The Summons 4/14/2010
33. The Wall Between 4/14/2010
34. The New Recruit 4/14/2010
35. Nymphs 1/3/2003
36. The Bird's Bargain 1/3/2003
37. Old Song Re-Sung 1/3/2003
38. Indian Summer 4/14/2010
39. The Lowlands Of Flanders 4/14/2010
40. Prayer At Night 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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