 | Shamrocks |  |
114
AT DAYBREAK.
There came a voice at midnight through the rain,
The knocking of a hand upon my door;
“Open, my heart!” the sweet voice pleaded sore;
“Open; how long wilt thou deny my pain?”
And I but stirred, and turned to dreams again,
Heavy with fumes of poppy and mandragore,
And while all night tempestuous winds did roar,
Broken with tears the voice cried on in vain.
The knocking of a hand upon my door;
“Open, my heart!” the sweet voice pleaded sore;
“Open; how long wilt thou deny my pain?”
And I but stirred, and turned to dreams again,
Heavy with fumes of poppy and mandragore,
And while all night tempestuous winds did roar,
Broken with tears the voice cried on in vain.
Now I awake at dawn and understand;
“Down, thou wild heart; He yet may wait,” I say;
And I unbar the door with trembling hand:
Only the rose-gold hills that front the day,
Only dark leagues on leagues of forest-land:
So I am grown a-sudden old and grey.
“Down, thou wild heart; He yet may wait,” I say;
And I unbar the door with trembling hand:
Only the rose-gold hills that front the day,
Only dark leagues on leagues of forest-land:
So I am grown a-sudden old and grey.
| Shamrocks | |