Arthur Rackham (1867-1939), “Irish Fairy Tales” by James Stephens, 1920
"My life became a ceaseless scurry and wound and escape, a burden and anguish of watchfulness."
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Harry Kernoff (Irish, 1900-1974), The Three Absolutes from 'The Crock of Gold' by James Stephens, 1925. Watercolour, 12 x 8 in.
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Arthur Rackham · Fairy tales
Irish Fairy Tales by James Stephens, with colour plates by Arthur Rackham, Macmillan, published 1920 | src Bonhams UK
The Arthur Rackham Fairy Book, George G. Harrap, published 1933 | src Bonhams UK
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White Fields
I
In the winter time we go
Walking in the fields of snow,
Where there is no grass at all,
Where the top of every wall,
Every fence, and every tree,
Is as white as white can be.
II
Pointing out the way we came,
— Every one of them the same —
All across the fields there be
Prints in silver filigree;
And our mothers always know
By the footprints in the snow
Where it is the children go.
by James Stephens
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Irish Fairy Tales by the Irish author James Stephens, 1920. The English illustrator Arthur Rackham provided interior artwork.
The stories are set in a wooded, Medieval Ireland filled with larger-than-life hunters, warriors, kings, and fairies.
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#OTD in 1858 – The Irish Republican Brotherhood was co-founded by James Stephens in Dublin.
The original IRB oath, as quoted by Thomas Clarke Luby and John O’Leary, and which is among several versions in James Stephens’s own papers, ran: ‘I, AB., do solemnly swear, in the presence of Almighty God, that I will do my utmost, at every risk, while life lasts, to make [other versions, according to Luby, establish in’] Ireland an independent Democratic Republic; that I will yield implicit…
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White Fields
I
In the winter time we go
Walking in the fields of snow;
Where there is no grass at all;
Where the top of every wall,
Every fence, and every tree,
Is as white as white can be.
II
Pointing out the way we came,
-Every one of them the same-
All across the fields there be
Prints in silver filigree;
And our mothers always know,
By the footprints in the snow,
Where it is the children go.
James Stephens
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Poem of the Day 22 August 2023
In The Cool Of The Evening
by James Stephens
I thought I heard Him calling. Did you hear
A sound, a little sound? My curious ear
Is dinned with flying noises, and the tree
Goes -- whisper, whisper, whisper silently
Till all its whispers spread into the sound
Of a dull roar. Lie closer to the ground,
The shade is deep and He may pass us by.
We are so very small, and His great eye,
Customed to starry majesties, may gaze
Too wide to spy us hiding in the maze;
Ah, misery! the sun has not yet gone
And we are naked: He will look upon
Our crouching shame, may make us stand upright
Burning in terror -- O that it were night!
He may not come . . . what! listen, list now --
He is here! lie closer . . . Adam, where art thou?
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and he killed the poets. He chopped them up and chopped them down. He did not leave one poeteen of them all. He put them out of the world and out of life, so that they stopped being, and no one could tell where they went or what had really happened to them; and it is a wonder indeed that one can do that to anything let alone a band. If they were not youngsters, the bold Fiacuil could not have managed them all. Or, perhaps, he too had a band, although the record does not say so; but kill them he did, and they died that way. Fionn saw that deed,
Reading about Fionn lately, feeling things.
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Gay pride happens in June and gay wrath happens whenever hbomberguy drops a 3+ hour video essay about a specific topic
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James Stephens – Deirdre
(...) Outrora ela pisava a terra; os homens / seguravam-lhe a mão; fitavam-na e diziam / o que lhe tinham a dizer, e ela lhes respondia. // Mais de mil anos se passaram desde quando Deirdre / era formosa; e caminhava pela relva; / e olhava as nuvens. ...
Mulher alguma leia este poema,composto para homens; e depois para seus filhose os filhos dos seus filhos.Já veio o tempo de abater-se o coração:basta lembrarmos Deirdre* e sua história,oh! que seus lábios já são poeira!Outrora ela pisava a terra; os homensseguravam-lhe a mão; fitavam-na e diziamo que lhe tinham a dizer, e ela lhes respondia.Mais de mil anos se passaram desde quando Deirdreera…
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They really went to Toby Stephens and said, “We’re imagining the saddest man—completely regret ridden, absolutely terrified of his own passions, but also weirdly “dark nautical” in theme.
And Toby Stephens went, “That’s actually kind of my specialty.”
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