 | Shamrocks |  |
62
SPRING SICKNESS.
It was the Autumn when you went,
The blessed Summer went with you,
Her golden largesse waste and spent,
Her rosy dawns and days of blue.
The wind was here—the wind and the rain,
The singing birds were too sad to sing;
But after the parting and the pain,
You would return in Spring.
The blessed Summer went with you,
Her golden largesse waste and spent,
Her rosy dawns and days of blue.
The wind was here—the wind and the rain,
The singing birds were too sad to sing;
But after the parting and the pain,
You would return in Spring.
Oh, long, long was the grey Winter,
With rotting, dead leaves underfoot,
Before warm winds began to stir,
And green grass-blades to spring and shoot
The daffodils were gold at last,
And rosy the apple's blossoming;
Sweet May drew nigh—sweet May went past:
You came not home in Spring.
With rotting, dead leaves underfoot,
Before warm winds began to stir,
And green grass-blades to spring and shoot
The daffodils were gold at last,
And rosy the apple's blossoming;
Sweet May drew nigh—sweet May went past:
You came not home in Spring.
63
By Newfoundland where fishers go,
The mermaid's hands made smooth your bed.
My young gold hair is white with woe;
My rose-red cheeks have the snow instead.
O young for ever, while I grow old:
The outward swallow is on the wing,
A ruined world, a sun turned cold:
And far from you and Spring.
The mermaid's hands made smooth your bed.
My young gold hair is white with woe;
My rose-red cheeks have the snow instead.
O young for ever, while I grow old:
The outward swallow is on the wing,
A ruined world, a sun turned cold:
And far from you and Spring.
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