John Reade (Джон Рид)

Killynoogan

KILLYNOOGAN,—hallowed name,—
Though thou ’rt little known to fame,
My heart’s homage thou dost claim.

Though to stranger ears thou be
But a word of mystery,
Meaning deep thou hast for me.

All thy quaint old masonry
Now before my eyes I see,
As of old it used to be.

Ah! too well I can recall
Every stone in every wall,—
In my heart I count them all.

And the lawn before the door,
I can see it as of yore,
Bright with daisies spangled o’er.

*        *        *        *        *

And the garden full of flowers,
Where I ’ve past romantic hours,
Dreaming of fair ladies’ bowers.

In the orchard, stretched at ease
On the grass, I hear the breeze
Piping ’mong the apple-trees.

While from many a leafy nook,
Grave as parson at his book,
Rook replieth unto rook.

I can hear the river’s flow
As it murmurs, soft and low,
Bringing news from Pettigo.

I can watch it to the mill,
Where the never-tiring wheel
Dances round and drinks its fill.

Past the ever-bubbling “spa,”
Past the castle of Magra,
Razed by Cromwell’s cruel law,

On it goes with many a turn,
Playing with its fringe of fern,
Till it touches broad Lough Erne.

1. The Wheat's Reward
2. The Dark Ages
3. Antigone
4. The Heart of Man
5. Devenish

Распечатать (Print)

Количество обращений к стихотворению: 1206

Последние стихотворения

To English version