There’s a ripple and shower of song-drops shaken,
A brown wing whirrs through the whitethorn spray —
O soul of mine from your dream awaken!
Sweet, green Erin is far away.
Here is no highway of singing thrushes —
Onward with thunderous roar and din,
The great life-stream of the city rushes,
Avid to draw me in.
Yet over it all, the wild, faint laughter
Of grasses astir beneath the moon,
Cries, “Come!” “Come!” “Come!” and I follow after
The whispering, elfin tune.
And my feet are winged with a blind desire
For brackened hills where the starbeams rest,
And dead as the ash of a last year’s fire
Is the spirit within my breast.
Is it not time to cease your dreaming,
Lost and wandering heart o’ me say?
O fairy eyes through the thickets gleaming,
You’ve stolen my soul away!
From: Cox, Eleanor Rogers, Singing Fires of Erin
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