 | Sounds and Sweet Airs |  |
32
Irish Melodies.
Inscribed to the Memory of Catherine Hayes.
A voice beside the dim enchanted river,
Out of the twilight, where the brooding trees
Hear Shannon's Druid waters chant for ever
Tales of dead Kings and Bards and Shanachies;
A girl's young voice out of the twilight, singing
Old songs beside the legendary stream;
A girl's clear voice, o'er the wan waters ringing,
Beats with its wild wings at the Gates of Dream.
Out of the twilight, where the brooding trees
Hear Shannon's Druid waters chant for ever
Tales of dead Kings and Bards and Shanachies;
A girl's young voice out of the twilight, singing
Old songs beside the legendary stream;
A girl's clear voice, o'er the wan waters ringing,
Beats with its wild wings at the Gates of Dream.
The flagger-leaves whereon shy dew-drops glisten
Are swaying, swaying gently to the sound,
The meadow-sweet and spearmint, as they listen,
Breathe wistfully their wizard balm around;
And there, alone with her lone heart and heaven,
Thrushlike she sings, and lets her voice go free,
Her soul of all its hidden longing shriven
Soars on wild wings with her wild melody.
Are swaying, swaying gently to the sound,
33
Breathe wistfully their wizard balm around;
And there, alone with her lone heart and heaven,
Thrushlike she sings, and lets her voice go free,
Her soul of all its hidden longing shriven
Soars on wild wings with her wild melody.
Sweet in its plaintive Irish modulations,
Her fresh young voice tuned to old sorrow seems,
The passionate cry of countless generations
Keenes in her breast as there she sings and dreams.
No more, sad voice; for now the dawn is breaking
Through the long night, through Ireland's night of tears,
New songs wake in the morn of her awaking
From the enchantment of nine hundred years.
Her fresh young voice tuned to old sorrow seems,
The passionate cry of countless generations
Keenes in her breast as there she sings and dreams.
No more, sad voice; for now the dawn is breaking
Through the long night, through Ireland's night of tears,
New songs wake in the morn of her awaking
From the enchantment of nine hundred years.
| Sounds and Sweet Airs | |