William Allingham

Chequer'd with woven shadows as I lay Among the grass, blinking the watery gleam, I saw an Echo-Spirit in his bay

I heard the dogs howl in the moonlight night; I went to the window to see the sight; All the Dead that ever I knew

Far from the churchyard dig his grave, On some green mound beside the wave; To westward, sea and sky alone,

Four ducks on a pond, A grass-bank beyond, A blue sky of spring,

See how a Seed, which Autumn flung down, And through the Winter neglected lay, Uncoils two little green leaves and two brown,

That which he did not feel, he would not sing; What most he felt, religion it was to hide In a dumb darkling grotto, where the spring

Gray, gray is Abbey Assaroe, by Belashanny town, It has neither door nor window, the walls are broken down; The carven-stones lie scatter'd in briar and nettle-bed!

Adieu to Belashanny! where I was bred and born; Go where I may, I'll think of you, as sure as night and morn. The kindly spot, the friendly town, where every one is known,

O pale green sea, With long, pale, purple clouds above What lies in me like weight of love ?

The vast and solemn company of clouds Around the Sun's death, lit, incarnadined, Cool into ashy wan; as Night enshrouds

Amy Margaret's five years old, Amy Margaret's hair is gold, Dearer twenty-thousand-fold

A sunset's mounded cloud; A diamond evening-star; Sad blue hills afar;

Now Autumn's fire burns slowly along the woods, And day by day the dead leaves fall and melt, And night by night the monitory blast

Gold tassel upon March's bugle-horn, Whose blithe reveille blows from hill to hill And every valley rings O Daffodil!

Down on the shore, on the sunny shore! Where the salt smell cheers the land; Where the tide moves bright under boundless light,

Four ducks on a pond, A grass-bank beyond, A blue sky of spring,

I thought it was the little bed I slept in long ago; A straight white curtain at the head,

Here the white-ray'd anemone is born, Wood-sorrel, and the varnish'd buttercup; And primrose in its purfled green swathed up,

O English mother, in the ruddy glow Hugging your baby closer when outside You see the silent, soft, and cruel snow

Seek up and down, both fair and brown, We've purty lasses many, O; But brown or fair, one girl most rare,

October - and the skies are cool and gray O'er stubbles emptied of their latest sheaf, Bare meadow, and the slowly falling leaf.

A wild west Coast, a little Town, Where little Folk go up and down, Tides flow and winds blow:

Oh, lovely Mary Donnelly, my joy, my only best If fifty girls were round you, I'd hardly see the rest; Be what it may the time o' day, the place be where it will

Through grass, through amber'd cornfields, our slow Stream, Fringed with its flags and reeds and rushes tall, And Meadowsweet, the chosen of them all

I'm glad I am alive, to see and feel The full deliciousness of this bright day, That's like a heart with nothing to conceal;

Good-bye, good-bye to Summer! For Summer's nearly done; The garden smiling faintly,

O spirit of the Summer-time! Bring back the roses to the dells; The swallow from her distant clime,

Saint Margaret's Eve it did befall, The waves roll so gayly O, The tide came creeping up the wall,

The Abbot of Innisfallen awoke ere dawn of day; Under the dewy green leaves

The Boy from his bedroom-window Look'd over the little town, And away to the bleak black upland

See the pretty planet! Floating sphere! Faintest breeze will fan it

In early morning twilight, raw and chill, Damp vapours brooding on the barren hill, Through miles of mire in steady grave array

Up the airy mountain, Down the rushy glen, We darent go a-hunting

With grief and mourning I sit to spin; My Love passed by, and he didn't come in; He passes by me, both day and night,

Little Cowboy, what have you heard, Up on the lonely rath's green mound? Only the plaintive yellow bird

Doleful was the land, Dull on, every side, Neither soft n'or grand,

Within a budding grove, In April's ear sang every bird his best, But not a song to pleasure my unrest,

When the spinning-room was here Came Three Damsels, clothed in white, With their spindles every night;

I once was a guest at a Nobleman's wedding; Fair was the Bride, but she scarce had been kind, And now in our mirth, she had tears nigh the shedding

By the shore, a plot of ground Clips a ruined chapel round, Buttressed with a grassy mound;

A man there came, whence none could tell, Bearing a Touchstone in his hand; And tested all things in the land

Adieu to Belashanny! where I was bred and born; Go where I may, I'll think of you,

Is always Age severe? Is never Youth austere? Spring-fruits are sour to eat;

These little Songs, Found here and there, Floating in air

Hayrick some do spell thy name, And thy verse approves the same; For 'tis like fresh-scented hay,

Pluck not the wayside flower, It is the traveller's dower; A thousand passers-by

Ring-Ting! I wish I were a Primrose, A bright yellow Primrose, blowing in the spring! The stooping boughs above me,

A man who keeps a diary, pays Due toll to many tedious days; But life becomes eventful then