Poems by Eavan Boland

Sorted by title, showing title and first line

Flesh is heretic.
The oaks are stricken by a serious illness
After the wolves and before the elms
These are outsiders, always. These stars—
In the worst hour of the worst season
—and not simply by the fact that this shading of
It was the first gift he ever gave her,
This harbour was made by art and force.
Here is the city—