The Irish Poems of Alfred Perceval Graves ... Second Edition |
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BESIDE THE RIVER LOUNE |
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 | The Irish Poems of Alfred Perceval Graves |  |
BESIDE THE RIVER LOUNE
Nevermore, where yon ash is weeping,
Old and hoar, over Loune,
Nevermore shall my heart go leaping
At the glance of her gown.
Nevermore, when snowflakes falling
Blanch the wrinkled, writhing boughs,
Shall I hear my love's voice kindly calling
Her “Come home!” to the cows.
Old and hoar, over Loune,
Nevermore shall my heart go leaping
At the glance of her gown.
45
Blanch the wrinkled, writhing boughs,
Shall I hear my love's voice kindly calling
Her “Come home!” to the cows.
O'er our tryst by the lone Loune water,
At the Ford of the Sloes,
Crept the mist, while the wild brown water
In anger arose.
Step by step each ford stone seeking,
She shimmered at my side,
But a sudden spate it swept her shrieking
Down the red, raging tide.
At the Ford of the Sloes,
Crept the mist, while the wild brown water
In anger arose.
Step by step each ford stone seeking,
She shimmered at my side,
But a sudden spate it swept her shrieking
Down the red, raging tide.
All night with the flood fiend wrestling
I sought her forlorn,
Till amid the blue forget-me-not nestling
I found her at morn.
Like a maiden of marble moulded,
All at peace my love lay there,
With her hands upon her bosom folded,
Meekly folded in prayer.
I sought her forlorn,
Till amid the blue forget-me-not nestling
I found her at morn.
Like a maiden of marble moulded,
All at peace my love lay there,
With her hands upon her bosom folded,
Meekly folded in prayer.
| The Irish Poems of Alfred Perceval Graves | |