Oh fair she is! Oh rare she is! Oh dearer still to me,
More welcome than the green leaf to winter-stricken tree!
More welcome than the blossom to the weary, dusty bee,
Is the coming of my true love—my own Cailin Donn!
O sycamore! O sycamore! wave, wave your banners green!
Let all your pennons flutter, O beech! before my queen!
Ye fleet and honeyed breezes, to kiss her hand ye run;
But my heart has passed before ye to my own Cailin Donn.
Ring out, ring out, O linden, your merry leafy bells!
Unveil your brilliant torches, O chestnut! to the dells;
Strew, strew the glade with splendor, for morn it cometh on!
Oh, the morn of all delight to me—my own Cailin Donn!
She is coming, where we parted, where she wanders every day;
There's a gay surprise before her who thinks me far away;
Oh, like hearing bugles triumph when the fight of freedom's won,
Is the joy around your footsteps, my own Cailin Donn!
George Sigerson [1839-1925]
NOCTURNE
All the earth a hush of white,
White with moonlight all the skies;
Wonder of a winter night—
And... your eyes.
Hues no palette dares to claim
Where the spoils of sunken ships
Leap to light in singing flame—
And... your lips.
Darkness as the shadows creep
Where the embers sigh to rest;
Silence of a world asleep—
And... your breast.