 | Shamrocks |  |
186
A WINTER LANDSCAPE.
The white snow like a pall
Lies deathly over all;
The year's streaked for the grave.
No stir in bush or cover,
The blackbird's song is over,
And robin hath no stave.
Lies deathly over all;
The year's streaked for the grave.
No stir in bush or cover,
The blackbird's song is over,
And robin hath no stave.
The black hills, fringed with snow,
Like widowed mourners go;
The snow-fields ghostly are.
In the golden August weather
They were gold and green together,
And the dreaming hills were far.
Like widowed mourners go;
The snow-fields ghostly are.
In the golden August weather
They were gold and green together,
And the dreaming hills were far.
187
There's a young girl's funeral
Winding on to the hill's wall;
Men's shoulders carry her.
All Summer she was yearning
For her sailor-love's returning;
Now he's here she will not stir.
Winding on to the hill's wall;
Men's shoulders carry her.
All Summer she was yearning
For her sailor-love's returning;
Now he's here she will not stir.
A moon floats languidly
In the beautiful rose-blue sky;
The bare boughs twine like lace;
In the west the day is dying,
And the gold and opal lying,
And the black night comes apace.
In the beautiful rose-blue sky;
The bare boughs twine like lace;
In the west the day is dying,
And the gold and opal lying,
And the black night comes apace.
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