| Share page | Visit Us On FB |
|
438 THE GOLDEN TREASURY OF |
||
|
O the springtime in old Ireland ! O'er the sea I can smell our hawthorn bushes, And it all comes back to me — The sweet air, the old place, the trees, the cows, the thrushes Mad with glee.
I'm weary for old Ireland—once again
To see her fields before me,
In sunshine or in rain ! And the longing in my heart when it comes o'er me Stings like pain. |
||
|
SONG
B
RING from the craggy haunts of birch and pine Thou wild wind, bring, Keen forest odors from that realm of thine, Upon thy wing!
O wind, O mighty, melancholy wind,
Blow through me, blow ! Thou blowest forgotten things into my mind
From long ago. |
||
|
THE WAVES' LEGEND OF THE STRAND OF BALA
T
HE sea moans on the strand, Moans over shingle and shell. O moaning sea ! what sorrowful story Do thy wild waves tell ? |
||
|
|
||