I go through wet spring woods alone,
Through sweet green woods with heart of stone,
My weary foot upon the grass
Falls heavy as I pass.
The cuckoo from the distance cries,
The lark a pilgrim in the skies;
But all the pleasant spring is drear.
I want you, dear!
I pass the summer meadows by,
The autumn poppies bloom and die;
I speak alone so bitterly
For no voice answers me.
“O lovers parting by the gate,
O robin singing to your mate,
Plead you well, for she will hear
‘I love you, dear!’”
I crouch alone, unsatisfied,
Mourning by winter’s fireside.
O Fate, what evil wind you blow.
Must this be so?
No southern breezes come to bless,
So conscious of their emptiness
My lonely arms I spread in woe,
I want you so.
A BIRD FROM THE WEST
At the grey dawn, amongst the felling leaves,
A little bird outside my window swung,
High on a topmost branch he trilled his song,
And “Ireland! Ireland! Ireland!” ever sung.
Take me, I cried, back to my island home;
Sweet bird, my soul shall ride between thy wings;
For my lone spirit wide his pinions spread,
And home and home and home he ever sings.
We lingered over Ulster stern and wild.
I called: “Arise! doth none remember me?”
One turnèd in the darkness murmuring,
“How loud upon the breakers sobs the sea!”
We rested over Connaught—whispering said:
“Awake, awake, and welcome! I am here.”
One woke and shivered at the morning grey;
“The trees, I never heard them sigh so drear.”
We flew low over Munster. Long I wept:
“You used to love me, love me once again!”
They spoke from out the shadows wondering;
“You’d think of tears, so bitter falls the rain.”