 | Irish Poems |  |
28
FEBRUARY IN LONDON
To A. H. Bullen
The grey streets of London are sweeter than the rose,
The grey streets of London when the West Wind blows.
The wild wind, the fresh wind, brings home the Spring again
And I turn my face to meet her in the softest rain.
The grey streets of London when the West Wind blows.
The wild wind, the fresh wind, brings home the Spring again
And I turn my face to meet her in the softest rain.
The tired folk and busy they put their cares away
With: Never mind to-morrow since life is good to-day.
They are wondering what ails them, the West Wind blows so sweet,
With a flash of green and silver in the saddest street.
With: Never mind to-morrow since life is good to-day.
They are wondering what ails them, the West Wind blows so sweet,
With a flash of green and silver in the saddest street.
There's dappled sky above us if the smoke would let us see.
In dingy squares and crescents there's a thrush upon the tree.
The rain like little fingers comes with a soft surprise
And is smoothing out the wrinkles round the weary eyes.
In dingy squares and crescents there's a thrush upon the tree.
The rain like little fingers comes with a soft surprise
And is smoothing out the wrinkles round the weary eyes.
29
The rain and the West Wind that set the flowers to start
They wash the grime from off the soul, the grief from the heart.
And who would you be meeting as you walk the murky town
But Spring that's like a daffodil in a golden gown?
They wash the grime from off the soul, the grief from the heart.
And who would you be meeting as you walk the murky town
But Spring that's like a daffodil in a golden gown?
The girls beside the pavements they carry golden store
Of wallflowers and hyacinths and violets galore.
The soft speech of Limerick I heard as I went by
And the blue eyes of Ireland were like a glint of sky.
Of wallflowers and hyacinths and violets galore.
The soft speech of Limerick I heard as I went by
And the blue eyes of Ireland were like a glint of sky.
The West Wind is blowing on people stepping light.
They wonder what is on them; they feel so queer and bright.
The softest rain is falling, and while the West Wind blows
The grey streets of London are sweeter than the rose.
They wonder what is on them; they feel so queer and bright.
The softest rain is falling, and while the West Wind blows
The grey streets of London are sweeter than the rose.
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