An Old Desire

I searched thro' memory's lumber-room And there I found an old desire, I took it gently from the gloom To cherish by my scanty tire.

And all the night a sweet-voiced one, Sang of the place my loves abide, Til Earth leaned over from the dawn And hid the last star in her side.

And often since, when most alone, I ponder on my old desire, But never hear the sweet-voiced one, And there are ruins in my fire.

THOMAS McDONAGH

He shall not hear the bittern cry In the wild sky, where he is lain, Nor voices of the sweeter birds Above the wailing of the rain.

Nor shall he know when loud March blows Thro' slanting snows her fanfare shrill, Blowing to flame the golden cup Of many an upset daffodil.

But when the Dark Cow leaves the moor, And pastures poor with greedy weeds, Perhaps he'll hear her low at morn Lifting her horn in pleasant meads.