And, after all, Gallaher had lived, he had seen the world.

Not for a pious chap like you, Tommy.

His face was heavy, pale and clean-shaven

The English critics, perhaps, would recognise him as one of the Celtic school by reason of the melancholy tone of his poems;

His temperament might be said to be just at the point of maturity

There was always a certain … something in Ignatius Gallaher that impressed you in spite of yourself

The glow of a late autumn sunset covered the grass plots and walks

His eyes, which were of bluish slate-colour, relieved his unhealthy pallor and shone out plainly above the vivid orange tie he wore

vulgar

Melancholy was the dominant note of his temperament

No memory of the past touched him, for his mind was full of a present joy.

His hands were white and small, his frame was fragile, his voice was quiet and his manners were refined

he was but slightly under the average stature, he gave one the idea of being a little man

He said that my friend was a very rough boy

He described to me how he would whip such a boy as if he were unfolding some elaborate mystery. He would love that, he said, better than anything in this world

Mahony began to throw stones at the wall she had escaladed

Anxiety and his swift run made him pant.

To appear natural he pushed his cap back on his head and planted his elbows on the table

Lenehan’s eyes noted approvingly her stout short muscular body

Once or twice when he spoke to her at close quarters she laughed and bent her head.

He was insensitive to all kinds of discourtesy

armed with a vast stock of stories, limericks and riddles

He became serious and silent when he had said this

And blights with plagues the Marriage hearse  Share on Twitter Share on Facebook Print this page Email this page More About this Poem Related

Did he smile his work to see?

sinews

immortal hand or eye

Romantic-era poem could be trivial or fantastic, succinctly songlike or digressively meandering

neoclassicism and rigid decorum of 18th-century poetry

vehemently