 | Dirge for Aoine and other poems |  |
xiv
MONDAY
Oh, fair of face stands Monday
At threshold of the week,
A lily in her breastknots,
A rose upon her cheek.
In kilted gown of russet
Her daily bread to seek,
She passes o'er the threshold,
Smiling, and does not speak.
At threshold of the week,
A lily in her breastknots,
A rose upon her cheek.
In kilted gown of russet
Her daily bread to seek,
She passes o'er the threshold,
Smiling, and does not speak.
She bears across her shoulder
A bough of blossomed may:
Still in her ears are ringing
Church-bells of yesterday.
She is as glad to labour
As Sunday was to pray—
But why she goes a-smiling
She will not ever say.
A bough of blossomed may:
Still in her ears are ringing
Church-bells of yesterday.
She is as glad to labour
As Sunday was to pray—
But why she goes a-smiling
She will not ever say.
| Dirge for Aoine and other poems | |