 | The Irish Poems of Alfred Perceval Graves |  |
O BLESSED HOUR
The frowning winter's past,
O blessed, blessed hour!
And leaves of hope at last
Laugh out from bank and bower.
The thorn that darkly sighed
Is decked in bridal May,
The sullen, sweeping tide
Runs sparkling on its way,
And bonny birds
Their loving words
Pipe forth from spray to spray.
O blessed, blessed hour!
And leaves of hope at last
Laugh out from bank and bower.
The thorn that darkly sighed
Is decked in bridal May,
The sullen, sweeping tide
Runs sparkling on its way,
And bonny birds
Their loving words
Pipe forth from spray to spray.
The meadows, long so dumb
Beneath the aching frost,
With bees are all a-hum,
With cowslips all embossed
And butterflies they glance
From nodding flower to flower
To join the jewel dance;
O blessed, blessed hour!
While pairing birds
Their warbled words
Through all the woodland shower.
Beneath the aching frost,
With bees are all a-hum,
With cowslips all embossed
138
From nodding flower to flower
To join the jewel dance;
O blessed, blessed hour!
While pairing birds
Their warbled words
Through all the woodland shower.
| The Irish Poems of Alfred Perceval Graves | |