Lady Jane Wilde

(27 December 1821 – 3 February 1896)

Lady Jane Wilde Poems

41. Hymn To The Cross. Savonarola 8/2/2012
42. Cassandra. From Schiller 8/2/2012
43. Thekla. A Swedish Saga. The Temptation 8/2/2012
44. Undiné.From The Danish 8/2/2012
45. The Sin 8/2/2012
46. Suleima To Her Lover.From The Turkish 8/2/2012
47. A Warning. From The Danish 8/2/2012
48. La Sombra De Mis Cabellos. From The Spanish.—sixteenth Century 8/2/2012
49. Moral 8/2/2012
50. Constancy.From The Russian 8/2/2012
51. The Fate Of The Lyrist 8/2/2012
52. The Poet's Destiny 8/2/2012
53. The Exile 8/2/2012
54. Déillusion 8/2/2012
55. The Punishment 8/2/2012
56. The Expiation 8/2/2012
57. 'Tis Not Upon Earth 8/2/2012
58. The Dawn 8/2/2012
59. A Servian Song 8/2/2012
60. The Prisoners. Christmas, 1869. 8/2/2012
61. The Bridal 8/2/2012
62. Jesus To The Soul Savonarola 8/2/2012
63. Death Wishes 8/2/2012
64. The Itinerant Singing Girl. From The Danish. 8/2/2012
65. The Fountain In The Forest.From Lamartine 8/2/2012
66. Ignez De Castro.From The Portuguese 8/2/2012
67. The Knight's Pledge 8/2/2012
68. Have We Done Well For Ireland? 8/2/2012
69. The Faithless Shepherds 8/2/2012
70. Signs Of The Times 8/2/2012
71. Have Ye Counted The Cost 8/2/2012
72. The Enigma 8/2/2012
73. Discipline 8/2/2012
74. O’connell, Hibernæ Liberator Ad Limina Apostolorum Pergens Genoæ Obdormivit 8/2/2012
75. Memory 8/2/2012
76. Le Réveille 8/2/2012
77. The Lady Beatriz.Romance.From The Spanish.—thirteenth Century. 8/2/2012
78. God's Justice 8/2/2012
79. God's Mercy 8/2/2012
80. An Appeal To Ireland 8/2/2012

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Best Poem of Lady Jane Wilde

The Famine Year

Weary men, what reap ye? —Golden corn for the stranger.
What sow ye? —Human corses that wait for the avenger.
Fainting forms, hunger‐stricken, what see you in the offing?
Stately ships to bear our food away, amid the stranger's scoffing.
There's a proud array of soldiers—what do they round your door?
They guard our masters' granaries from the thin hands of the poor.
Pale mothers, wherefore weeping? —Would to God that we were dead
Our children swoon before us, and we cannot give them bread.

Little children, tears are strange upon your infant faces,
God meant you...

Read the full of The Famine Year

The Voice Of The Poor

Was sorrow ever like to our sorrow?
Oh, God above!
Will our night never change into a morrow
Of joy and love?
A deadly gloom goom is on us waking, sleeping,
Like the darkness at noontide,
That fell upon the pallid mother, weeping
By the Crucified.

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