 | Irish Poems |  |
78
THE HAPPY DEAD
To Mary
For citizens of God's City
The kind folk have great pity:
Poor girl, she died a year ago, five years ago.
While blithe ghosts lingering near them
With softest laughter hear them,
Safe in the bowers of Paradise where roses blow.
The kind folk have great pity:
Poor girl, she died a year ago, five years ago.
While blithe ghosts lingering near them
With softest laughter hear them,
Safe in the bowers of Paradise where roses blow.
The happy souls in heaven,
Washed white as snow new-driven,
In gardens green, by a clear stream, they walk with God.
Withouten grief or sorrow
They wait in hope the morrow.
To-morrow brings their darlings home by the selfsame road.
Washed white as snow new-driven,
In gardens green, by a clear stream, they walk with God.
Withouten grief or sorrow
They wait in hope the morrow.
To-morrow brings their darlings home by the selfsame road.
Oh, what friends and what lovers
The newly-come discovers:
Life of my life, soul of my soul, you come at last!
They shall feed full on kisses,
And more than mortal blisses,
The hungry days, the lonely ways, over and past.
The newly-come discovers:
Life of my life, soul of my soul, you come at last!
They shall feed full on kisses,
79
The hungry days, the lonely ways, over and past.
Should I go there before you,
I, your love, who adore you,—
Let us make tryst: I shall wait for you inside the gate
That will open to admit you.
How I shall meet you and greet you!
Heart of my heart, life of my life, you come so late.
I, your love, who adore you,—
Let us make tryst: I shall wait for you inside the gate
That will open to admit you.
How I shall meet you and greet you!
Heart of my heart, life of my life, you come so late.
The kind folk who are living,
'Tis they have pity and grieving,
And none will listen to her blame: Poor girl, she's dead.
Who in the clouds of glory
Knows parting transitory,
Soul of my soul, oh weep no more: be comforted!
'Tis they have pity and grieving,
And none will listen to her blame: Poor girl, she's dead.
Who in the clouds of glory
Knows parting transitory,
Soul of my soul, oh weep no more: be comforted!
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