 | Evensong |  |
15
THE SECRET
I carry my hidden joy with me by country and city,And none guesses the little joy that stirs at my heart,
Nor that she sings so low to herself her secret ditty,
Of how the days and hours run out that keep us apart.
For it's you, it's you, I'm wanting still through the weeks and days;
And the thought of you is troubling me yet when I sleep or wake,
And the hunger for you turns hard for me the softest ways,
And the sweetness of honey is bitter to me for your darling sake.
O my soft and my dreaming Love, in your mists and shadows
It is you keeps calling me home again from the feast and fair,
You by your silver hills and vales and your dew-drenched meadows,
And your eyes grey as the water is and your silken hair.
Although this land is beautiful, sure, and the people kind,
They never know the heart of me that is ill at ease,
Sick for the silk-soft rains of you and the crying wind,
And the grey skies leaning over you and your mountains and seas.
The milky breasts of you, Rosaleen, and the mouth of honey,
The mother eyes of you, Silk o' the Kine, dewy and mild,
And the quiet heart of you, Kathaleen, that is dark and sunny,
Draw me home to rest with you, in your arms—a child.
| Evensong | |