In fields where whispers softly bud, Heaneyâs pen danced with the earth, Each line a furrow, deep and true, Unearthing…
In fields of green, where shadows play, Heaneyâs words paint a troubled day. Echoes of past, in verses clear, Whispering…
The fields whisper your name, Seamus, Your words, a melody of the soil, Each furrow, a line of verse, Ploughed…
In the quiet fields where you once roamed, Your voice now rests, your spirit homed. The pen that carved the…
In the shadow of history’s weight, Heaney’s pen bled ink and truth, Through fields of green and sorrow’s gate, He…
The fields of Ireland whisper your name, In every blade of grass, in every grain of soil, Your words, like…
In the quiet of the evening’s light, A poet’s spirit took its flight, W.B. Yeats, whose words did weave A…
In shadows cast by historyâs hand, Where echoes of turmoil softly land, Seamus Heaney’s pen does gently trace, The pain…
In the silence where words once thrived, The echoes of your voice survive, Through fields of thought and verse profound,…