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158 THE GOLDEN TREASURY OF |
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O the smell of the beasts, The wet wind in the morn,
And the proud and hard earth Never broken for corn ! |
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And the crowds at the fair,
The herds, loosened and blind;
Loud words and dark faces, And the wild blood behind.
(O strong men with your best I would strive breast to breast; I could quiet your herds With my words, with my words.)
I will bring you, my kine,
Where there's grass to the knee,
But you'll think of scant croppings, Harsh with salt of the sea. |
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DREAM AND SHADOW
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OUR face has not the bloom I gave My dream of you, my dream of you ! Your eyes have not her eyes' deep hue, Nor has your hair the gold I wrought
Out of my dreams for head of her — M Bhron ! I thought that dream sheen caught
From hair of you, from hair of you ! Pale lips, pale hair, 'tis not your fault: A shadow of a dream are you ! |
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