 | Songs of Killarney |  |
147
PARKNASILLA.
TO AN ARTIST.
O who could limn the landscape that we love—The rocky garden's variegated wreath—
The limes that skirt—the oaks and pines beneath—
Ocean before, the summer sky above?
Who could pourtray the mountains' purple smiles—
And all the opal hues of earth and heaven,
Foam-fringing forests—heather-tufted Isles;
The roseate dawn—purpureal pomps of even—
And young Atlantic's petulant shifting wiles?
Who could do aught but mar the true expression
Where all is change? Then why a record shape
Of scenes whose nature glories in succession
From wood to wave—from wave to distant cape—
Like the young poet's dream, fair beyond all possession?
| Songs of Killarney | |