 | The Irish Poems of Alfred Perceval Graves |  |
MY MOUNTAIN LAKE
My own lake of lakes,
My lone lake of lakes,
When the young blushing day
Beside you awakes,
The cold hoary mist,
To gold glory kissed,
Lifts laughing away
O'er your cool amethyst.
My lone lake of lakes,
When the young blushing day
Beside you awakes,
The cold hoary mist,
To gold glory kissed,
Lifts laughing away
O'er your cool amethyst.
My fair lake of lakes,
My rare lake of lakes,
How your tartan, red gold,
In the summer air shakes!
Fold fluttering on fold
Of purple heath bloom
And gay, glancing broom,
A joy to behold.
My rare lake of lakes,
How your tartan, red gold,
In the summer air shakes!
Fold fluttering on fold
Of purple heath bloom
And gay, glancing broom,
A joy to behold.
My sad, sleeping lake!
My mad, leaping lake!
When the palled tempest powers
Into agony break—
Their tears scalding showers,
Thunder moans their lament,
Their garments grief-rent
Thy broken hill bowers.
My mad, leaping lake!
When the palled tempest powers
Into agony break—
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Thunder moans their lament,
Their garments grief-rent
Thy broken hill bowers.
Bright faint-heaving breast,
By fond visions possessed!
Not a wave frets thy beach,
Scarce one ripple's unrest.
Dim, weltering reach,
Where the Priestess of Heaven
And the Steadfast Stars Seven
Hold Sibylline speech.
By fond visions possessed!
Not a wave frets thy beach,
Scarce one ripple's unrest.
Dim, weltering reach,
Where the Priestess of Heaven
And the Steadfast Stars Seven
Hold Sibylline speech.
| The Irish Poems of Alfred Perceval Graves | |