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276 THE GOLDEN TREASURY OF |
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The shamrock on an older shore
Sprang from a rich and sacred soil Where saint and hero lived of yore,
And where their sons in sorrow toil; And here, transplanted, it to me
Seems weeping for the soil it left And diamonds that all others see
Are tears drawn from its heart bereft.
When April rain makes flowers grow,
And sparkles on their tiny buds That in June nights will over-blow
And fill the world with scented floods, The lonely shamrock in our land —
So fine among the clover leaves — For the old springtimes often grieves —
I feel its tears upon my hand. |
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