A Man
A MAN is not the slave of circumstance,
Or need not be, but builder and dictator;
He makes his own events, not time nor chance;
Their logic his: not creature, but creator.
poem by John Boyle O'Reilly
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Written Under a Portrait of Keats
A GOD-LIKE face, with human love and will
And tender fancy traced in every line:
A god-like face, but oh, how human still!
Dear Keats, who love the gods their love is thine.
poem by John Boyle O'Reilly
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Life Is A Confluence
HUNGER goes sleeplessly
Thinking of food;
Evil lies painfully
Yearning for good.
Life is a confluence:
Nature must move,
Like the heart of a poet,
Toward beauty and love.
poem by John Boyle O'Reilly
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A Dissapointment
HER hair was a waving bronze, and her eyes
Deep wells that might cover a brooding soul;
And who, till he weighed it, could ever surmise
That her heart was a cinder instead of a coal!
poem by John Boyle O'Reilly
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Spring Flowers
O THE rare spring flowers! take them as they come:
Do not wait forsummer buds—they may never bloom.
Every sweet to-day sends, we are wise to save;
Roses bloom for pulling: the path is to the grave.
poem by John Boyle O'Reilly
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Destiny
SOLDIER, why do you shrink from the hiss of the hungry lead?
The bullet that whizzed is past; the approaching ball is dumb.
Stand straight! you cannot shrink from Fate: let it come!
A comrade in front may hear it whiz—when you are dead.
poem by John Boyle O'Reilly
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The Infinite
The Infinite always is silent:
It is only the Finite speaks.
Our words are the idle wave-caps
On the deep that never breaks.
We may question with wand of science,
Explain, decide, and discuss;
But only in meditation
The Mystery speaks to us.
poem by John Boyle O'Reilly
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Conscience
I CARE not for the outer voice
That deals out praise or blame;
I could not with the world rejoice
Nor bear its doom of shame—
But when the Voice within me speaks
The truth to me is known;
He sees himself who inward seeks—
The riches are his own.
poem by John Boyle O'Reilly
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To A.S. on His Daughter's Wedding
THERE is no joy all set apart from pain,
The opening bud has loss as well as gain.
The brighest dewdropp gems a bending flower,
The rarest day has wept one little shower;
But wholly blest the parting pain and ruth
That hold and fold the joining love of youth.
poem by John Boyle O'Reilly
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Yesterday and Tomorrow
JOYS have three stages, Hoping, Having, and Had:
The hands of Hope are empty, and the heart of Having is sad;
For the joy we take, in the taking dies; and the joy we Had is its ghost.
Now, which is the better—the joy unknown or the joy we have clasped and lost?
poem by John Boyle O'Reilly
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