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IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 109 |
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'Twas thus, if legend tell it true, A lowly graveyard round it grew; A holy spot it is, in faith, Where one might wish to lie in death.
And still on moldered stone and grass The thorn-tree sees the shadows pass, Nor shows a sign of slow decay, For 'twill be quick till Judgment-day ! |
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THE GARDEN OF THE BEES
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HERE is a clearing in the maze of flowers That closes in my father's House of Happiness ; And Summer dews it with her softest showers,
The while she suns it with an eye of tenderness. And on its plat of shaven fairy-grass
My bees are housed in hives of beechen wood,
Filling the languorous'air with lazy drone Till moth-time comes with melancholy mood, Deepening the shadow on the dial-stone, And drifts of purple o'er the mountain pass.
And often there of quiet Summer eves
We gather, Seaghan and Seumas, Feidhlim Og and I — My Gaelic school—to sit within the leaves,
And listen to the red-bees' twilight lullaby. And Seaghan will take a poem from his breast,
Chanting it to the purple sunken sun, |
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