Although I’m an Irish lass by genes and inclination, my idea of a St. Patrick’s Day celebration is soda bread, black tea and Yeats. (If there’s an Irish version of “Bah humbug,” insert here.) Needless to say, I celebrate alone. But I left some poems by Yeats at the local Irish pub for those whose celebrating takes a jollier turn.
poems are on lower left windows
Yeats’ “A Drinking Song” was a no-brainer for the occasion:
And a more sobering poem of his:
That one holds some of my favorite lines ever from any poem:
And under every dancer
A dead man in his grave
And because this particular pub is THE meeting place for old pals on St. Patrick’s Day, I left this:
Finally, you can’t celebrate St. Patrick’s Day without a good toast and an Irish blessing, so I left both behind:
This one is dear to me:
Happy St. Patrick’s Day!
