Irish Poems | ||
60
THE ROOM
To Ethel Brayden
This is my best hour of all,
When the quiet evenfall
Darkening over hill and plain
Brings the children home again.
When the quiet evenfall
Darkening over hill and plain
Brings the children home again.
Garnished is the room and sweet,
And the shaded lamp is lit.
To the rosy firelight gather
Three little folk from wind and weather.
And the shaded lamp is lit.
To the rosy firelight gather
Three little folk from wind and weather.
All my birds have fluttered home
To the nest in the warm gloam.
And one roof-tree covers over
All I love and me the lover.
To the nest in the warm gloam.
And one roof-tree covers over
All I love and me the lover.
In the night what foes may lurk,
Evil shapes in the thick dark!
But the children warm and living
Know no sin and fear no grieving.
Evil shapes in the thick dark!
But the children warm and living
Know no sin and fear no grieving.
61
Three dear heads bent o'er their books,
And what need of shepherd's crooks?
And what fear that lambs go straying
Folded in with love and praying?
And what need of shepherd's crooks?
And what fear that lambs go straying
Folded in with love and praying?
Three dear children will lie warm,
Safe from midnight and the storm;
With an angel by them keeping
Guard lest aught disturb their sleeping.
Safe from midnight and the storm;
With an angel by them keeping
Guard lest aught disturb their sleeping.
Underneath my roof-tree groweth
Herb of grace, and Heartsease bloweth,
Pleasant places and a spring
For the children's comforting.
Herb of grace, and Heartsease bloweth,
Pleasant places and a spring
For the children's comforting.
There shall come an evenfall
When no roof-tree covers all,
When the room shall be bereaven
And the mother of her Heaven.
When no roof-tree covers all,
When the room shall be bereaven
And the mother of her Heaven.
In that day how sweet will rise
Visions of lost Paradise,
When one warm room held all treasure,
All delight in its scant measure.
Visions of lost Paradise,
When one warm room held all treasure,
All delight in its scant measure.
Irish Poems | ||