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. New Heaven 4/14/2010
6. Palestine: 1917 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. To The Others 4/14/2010
11. To One In Grief 4/14/2010
12. The Truce Of God 4/14/2010
13. The Vision: (Katia: Easter Sunday, 1916) 4/14/2010
14. Pilgrims To The East 4/14/2010
15. Lenton Communion 4/14/2010
16. Farewell 4/14/2010
17. The Test 4/14/2010
18. The Only Son 4/14/2010
19. Salutation 4/14/2010
20. Of An Orchard 4/14/2010
21. Recompense: (For Lord Kilhacken) 4/14/2010
22. Telling The Bees: (For Edward Tennant) 4/14/2010
23. They Who Return 4/14/2010
24. The Young Soldier 4/14/2010
25. The Wild Geese 4/14/2010
26. Missing 4/14/2010
27. The Vision 4/14/2010
28. The Refuge 4/14/2010
29. The Riders 4/14/2010
30. The Predestined 4/14/2010
31. No Man's Land 4/14/2010
32. Noel 4/14/2010
33. The Young Mother 4/14/2010
34. Nymphs 1/3/2003
35. The Bird's Bargain 1/3/2003
36. The Summons 4/14/2010
37. The Wall Between 4/14/2010
38. The New Recruit 4/14/2010
39. Riding Home 4/14/2010
40. Lambs 1/3/2003
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.

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