 | Songs of Killarney |  |
136
SONNET
TO A LABURNUM IN A DUBLIN GARDEN.
Dost thou, despairful that thy lot is laidFar from the wild wood, the romantic hill,
In rich dishevelment of sorrow spill
Thy long locks lustrous—kiss thine own sweet shade
Narcissus-like, or with the Argive maid
To golden glamour yield thee half afraid?
An exile's longings for some orient lea
Lavish belike these glittering hoards of grief.
I know not. Yet, before their summer brief
Forsakes our island woods, Laburnum Tree,
Again thou seem'st to blossom tears of gold.
Nearer we draw, yet all that we behold
Is but the splendour of thy faded leaf—
No hue of health—the flush that all too soon is cold.
| Songs of Killarney | |