 | Dirge for Aoine and other poems |  |
xxiv
ON RYE HILL
Green meadows after the rainfall look like spring:
We pass along them, lazily loitering.
White flowers in the deep grass move at the touch of a white moth's wing:
The cattle are still in the meadow, and high on the hill
The sheep are still.
We pass along them, lazily loitering.
White flowers in the deep grass move at the touch of a white moth's wing:
The cattle are still in the meadow, and high on the hill
The sheep are still.
A robin sings in the hawthorn that leans so low,
Bowed by the weight of its haws, and the blackberries show
Delicate blossom, and fruit that deepens from red
Into the perfect black, and the deep-thorned branches spread
Traps in the yellowing grass for the careless feet that fare
This way in the lover's twilight; and up from the alders there
A cloud of swallows rises and dances high in the air.
Bowed by the weight of its haws, and the blackberries show
Delicate blossom, and fruit that deepens from red
Into the perfect black, and the deep-thorned branches spread
Traps in the yellowing grass for the careless feet that fare
This way in the lover's twilight; and up from the alders there
A cloud of swallows rises and dances high in the air.
Bells leap up and follow with chime upon chime
Us as we climb
Up past the alder coolness, the hazel screen.
Over us now no trees but the oaks stand green;
Beautiful, steadfast, grave, they gather and stand,
Guarding the dimpling land;
And far away where the girdle of oaks slips free—
Behold, the sea.
Us as we climb
Up past the alder coolness, the hazel screen.
Over us now no trees but the oaks stand green;
Beautiful, steadfast, grave, they gather and stand,
Guarding the dimpling land;
And far away where the girdle of oaks slips free—
Behold, the sea.
| Dirge for Aoine and other poems | |