  It’s little that I’d care for the glories of Ireland, Waiting for the shadows to gather in the glen, Come the time of darkness, sitting by the hearth-light, Whispering with bated breath for fear the little men Should catch us and spell us to serve them for a year’s time, Toiling and moiling within a faËry snare. I’m thinkin’ ’twould be fearsome in the gray misty strangeness.— ’Tis hiding we’ll be in the clear free air! The sunlight above us, and willow hedge for shelter, A tangle of soft things to rustle by the stream, Where Moira, my white dove, whose beauty is my sorrow, Would sit with me and travel on the long bright dream, Travel with the water from the mountain to the meadow, Down across the lowlands and gaily to the sea, Out beyond the breakers to the shimmer of a far line Poised and trembling within the heart of me. What shall I murmur to coax the dream of beauty Out from the shadows to welcome in the dawn? How shall I sing it that she may know the glory, Know it and come by the first flush of morn? The moonlight is dark light, ’tis fear I’m after feelin’, The fairies should be in it and steal her heart away, A goblet for their feasting, they’d drain it and fill it With dreams of a far world beyond the light of day. It’s God’s light I’m wanting, and Moira to see it, See it and tremble with the love of God, And seeing it she’d turn, and look within my own eyes, And wonder at the vision transforming a sod Into worshipful silence and thought that is living, Burning, and shaped by the warmth of its fire To a chalice of tears and of laughter for singing The lovely unfolding of dream-purged desire. Smart Set Edward J. O’Brien |
|
