I LOVE the oak-grove where the Druid’s knife
Cut down the mistletoe in days of old;
I love the elms around the convent fold
Where souls escape the dust of highway life.
I love to watch the tiny milk-white spires
That on the chestnut branches lift their head;
I love to see the rowan growing red
With clusters bright as frosty winter fires.
But better still I love you, firs that crest
The lonely hill above the moaning firth,
Beside the path where bluebells gently nod.
To your grey arms, ere sunset leaves the West,
I can confide each sorrow at its birth,
For you have known the waves and storms of God.
XIV
GOOD-BYE
Sing me one more villanelle,
Light as elfin foot that brushes
Through the ferns and foxgloves of the fairy dell.
Come where woodland spices smell,
Where the wild rose faintly flushes,
Sing me one more villanelle.
Rare as snowy heather bell,
Sweet as melody of thrushes
Through the ferns and foxgloves of the fairy dell.
When the shade creeps up the fell
Mid the parting sun’s last blushes,
Sing me one more villanelle.
Sing it to the curfew knell,
Where the streamlet plays with rushes
Through the ferns and foxgloves of the fairy dell.