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. Shamrock Song 4/14/2010
82. The Bride 4/14/2010
83. The Convent Garden 4/14/2010
84. The Crown 4/14/2010
85. The Dead Coach 4/14/2010
86. The Brothers (For Arnold And Donald Fletcher) 4/14/2010
87. The Great Chance 4/14/2010
88. The Great May 4/14/2010
89. The Great Sorrow 4/14/2010
90. The Last Question: (For B. A. Bingham) 4/14/2010
91. The Colonists 4/14/2010
92. The Father 4/14/2010
93. The Dream: (For My Father) 4/14/2010
94. For The Airmen 4/14/2010
95. Unhousel'D, Unanointed, Unanel'D 4/14/2010
96. High Summer 4/14/2010
97. The Choice 4/14/2010
98. What She Said 4/14/2010
99. The Dear Brown Head 4/14/2010
100. The Sad Spring 4/14/2010
101. Vigil 4/14/2010
102. The Old Love 4/14/2010
103. Resurrection 4/14/2010
104. Easter 1/3/2003
105. The Fields Of France 4/14/2010
106. Distraction 4/14/2010
107. When You Come Home 4/14/2010
108. The Gardener 4/14/2010
109. The Vestal 4/14/2010
110. The Mother Of Three 4/14/2010
111. The Great Mercy 4/14/2010
112. Slow Spring 1/3/2003
113. What Turned The Germans Back 4/14/2010
114. The Garden 4/14/2010
115. The Heart Of A Boy 4/14/2010
116. Unfit 4/14/2010
117. The Nurse 1/3/2003
118. The Golden Boy 4/14/2010
119. The Only Child 1/3/2003
120. Joining The Colours 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

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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