 | Shamrocks |  |
161
II.
Therefore do I rejoice—who love you so,
My hills—to think there will be hills in heaven;
The everlasting hills, at dawn and even,
Standing to gaze against the sunlight glow;
Silver and grey, and domed with shining snow,
In rose-flecked purple and in wan gold laven.
Oh, there shall be none sick or unforgiven
In the most pleasant vales that lie below!
My hills—to think there will be hills in heaven;
The everlasting hills, at dawn and even,
Standing to gaze against the sunlight glow;
Silver and grey, and domed with shining snow,
In rose-flecked purple and in wan gold laven.
Oh, there shall be none sick or unforgiven
In the most pleasant vales that lie below!
And oh, the warm wind blowing from the heights!
Blowing like balm. I think that heaven will be,
In some sort, reassuming of old things—
Our hills, our woods, our song-birds, our delights,
And our lost loves that sailed away—ah me!—
Far on Death's dark, with wide unwavering wings.
Blowing like balm. I think that heaven will be,
In some sort, reassuming of old things—
Our hills, our woods, our song-birds, our delights,
And our lost loves that sailed away—ah me!—
Far on Death's dark, with wide unwavering wings.
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