 | The Irish Poems of Alfred Perceval Graves |  |
72
LOVE'S WISHES
Would I were Erin's apple-blossom o'er you,
Or Erin's rose, in all its beauty blown,
To drop my richest petals down before you,
Within the garden where you walk alone;
In hope you'd turn and pluck a little posy,
With loving fingers through my foliage pressed,
And kiss it close and set it blushing rosy
To sigh out all its sweetness on your breast.
Or Erin's rose, in all its beauty blown,
To drop my richest petals down before you,
Within the garden where you walk alone;
In hope you'd turn and pluck a little posy,
With loving fingers through my foliage pressed,
And kiss it close and set it blushing rosy
To sigh out all its sweetness on your breast.
Would I might take a pigeon's flight towards you,
And perch beside your window-pane above,
And murmur how my heart of hearts it hoards you,
O hundred thousand treasures of my love;
In hope you'd stretch your slender hand and take me,
And smooth my wildly-fluttering wings to rest,
And lift me to your loving lips and make me
My bower of blisses in your loving breast.
And perch beside your window-pane above,
And murmur how my heart of hearts it hoards you,
O hundred thousand treasures of my love;
In hope you'd stretch your slender hand and take me,
And smooth my wildly-fluttering wings to rest,
And lift me to your loving lips and make me
My bower of blisses in your loving breast.
And when the dew no longer pearls your roses,
Nor gems your footprint on the glittering lawn,
I'd follow you into the forest closes
In the fond image of your sportive fawn;
Till you should woo me 'neath the wavering cover
With coaxing call and friendly hands and eyes,
Where never yet a happy human lover
His head has pillowed—mine to emparadise.
Nor gems your footprint on the glittering lawn,
I'd follow you into the forest closes
In the fond image of your sportive fawn;
Till you should woo me 'neath the wavering cover
With coaxing call and friendly hands and eyes,
Where never yet a happy human lover
His head has pillowed—mine to emparadise.
| The Irish Poems of Alfred Perceval Graves | |