Poetry, Literature Music and Art

The Dead by James Joyce

‘A few light taps upon the pane made him turn to the window. It had begun to snow again. He watched sleepily the flakes, silver and dark, falling obliquely against the lamplight. The time had come for him to set out on his journey westward. Yes, the newspapers were right: snow was general all over(…)

Wet Evening in April

The birds sang in the wet trees And as I listened to them it was A hundred years from now, And I was dead and someone else was listening to them. But I was glad I had recorded for him the melancholy. Patrick Kavanagh, Irish poet.