 | Irish Poems |  |
55
THE EXILE
To Frank Mathew
There are thrushes and finches in an English coppice.
All the May night the nightingales are never still.
My heart turns and tosses on its bed of poppies,
Desolate for the blackbird by an Irish hill.
All the May night the nightingales are never still.
My heart turns and tosses on its bed of poppies,
Desolate for the blackbird by an Irish hill.
Sweet are the English fields, dappled with blossom,
The fine stacks of hay and corn are up to the eaves.
Sure, why would it trouble me, the heart in my bosom
For a lone field in Ireland where the peewit grieves?
The fine stacks of hay and corn are up to the eaves.
Sure, why would it trouble me, the heart in my bosom
For a lone field in Ireland where the peewit grieves?
Ordered and pleasant is an English garden;
In the happy orchards the fruit hangs red.
Still through the scented night my heart knew its burden
And through the golden day; if naught was said.
In the happy orchards the fruit hangs red.
Still through the scented night my heart knew its burden
And through the golden day; if naught was said.
Lovely the homesteads in an English country,
Neither change nor ruin there as time goes by.
In a bower of roses, my heart keeping sentry
Cried for my own country with a lonesome cry.
Neither change nor ruin there as time goes by.
In a bower of roses, my heart keeping sentry
Cried for my own country with a lonesome cry.
| Irish Poems | |