 | The Poetical Works of Aubrey De Vere |  |
223
VIII. THE ISLAND OF INISFALLEN.
The holy sunshine like a garment lay,A sacerdotal vesture dense with gold,
On every shelving mound, and slumbrous wold,
As round and round we paced at noon our way.
Onward we paced by many a winding bay,
And hollow lawn that seemed to have ta'en its mould
From wave-like anthems rolling here of old,
While yet old rites maintained harmonious sway.
Green slopes we trod, majestic as the plains
Of sand disclosed by Ocean's ebbing tide:
Hard by were groves of ash through which we spied
The ruined convent with its weather-stains,
From whose calm bosom passed of old the strains
This Eden of blue lakes that sanctified.
| The Poetical Works of Aubrey De Vere | |