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IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 207 |
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Ah, sweet conception ! enviable guest,
lodged in the pleasant palace of her brain, Summoned a minute, at her rich behest,
To wander fugitive the world again, What does she think of ? Of the dusty bridge,
Spanning the mallow shadows in the heat, And porching in its hollow the cool wind ; Or of the poplar on the naked ridge :
Or of the bee that, clogged with nectared feet, Hums in the gorgeous tulip-bell confined ?
At times, her gentle brows are archly knit
With tangled subtleties of gracious thought; At times, the dimples round her mouth are lit
By rosy twilights from some image caught. What does she think of ? Of the open book
Whose penciled leaves are fluttering on her knee; Or of the broken fountain in the grass; Or of the dumb and immemorial rook,
Perched like a winged darkness on the tree, And watching the great clouds in silence pass r
I know not; myriad are the phantasies,
That trouble the still dreams of maidenhood, And wonderful the radiant entities
Shaped in the passion of her brain and blood. O Fancy ! through the realm of guesses fly,
Unlock the rich abstraction of her heart (Her soul is second in the mystery) : Trail thy gold meshes thro' the summer sky;
Question her tender breathings as they part, Tell me, Revealer, that she thinks of me. |
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