 | The Irish Poems of Alfred Perceval Graves |  |
SWEET ISLE
Sweet Isle, O how our hearts upleap
Once more to mark thee mount the deep,
Unfolding still to greet our gaze
Haunt after haunt of blessed by-gone days.
Once more to mark thee mount the deep,
Unfolding still to greet our gaze
Haunt after haunt of blessed by-gone days.
Blue hill-sides oft in boyhood climbed,
Lanes where we courted, roamed and rhymed,
Our hurling green, our dancing ground,
Each dear old cottage ranging round.
Lanes where we courted, roamed and rhymed,
Our hurling green, our dancing ground,
Each dear old cottage ranging round.
And now, sweet Isle, we near thy shore;
Young hands wave welcome, old eyes run o'er;
Till loving arms at long, long last
Have fondly folded their exile fast!
Young hands wave welcome, old eyes run o'er;
Till loving arms at long, long last
Have fondly folded their exile fast!
| The Irish Poems of Alfred Perceval Graves | |