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IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 429 |
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And mellow edges golden-ored
As sinks the round sun in the flood, And high up wings the crow line toward
Old turrets in the distant wood; Awhile from some twilighted roof
The blue smoke rises o'er the thatch; By cots along the green aloof
Some home-come laborer lifts the latch;
Or housewife sings her child to sleep, Or calls her fowl-flock from the turf,
While the mill-wheel, bound
On its drowsy round, Goes snoring through the gusts of surf.
Still at our open window, where
Gleams on the leaves the lamp new lit, For hours we read old books, and share
Their thoughts and pictures, love and wit: As midnight nears, its quiet ray
Thrown on the garden's hedges faint, Pales, as the moon, from clouds of gray,
Looks down serenely as a saint. We hear a few drops of a shower,
Laying the dust for morning feet, Patter upon the corner bower,
Then, ceasing, send an air as sweet.
And as we close the window down, And close the volumes read so long,
Even the wheel's snore
Is heard no more, And scarce the runnel's swirling song. |
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