SILENT, O Moyle, be the roar of thy water, Break not, ye breezes, your chain of repose, While, murmuring mournfully, Lir's lonely daughter Tells to the night-star her tale of woes. When shall the swan, her death-note singing, Sleep, with wings in darkness furled? When will heaven, its sweet bell ringing, Call my spirit from this stormy world? Sadly, O Moyle, to thy winter-wave weeping, Fate bids me languish long ages away; Yet still in her darkness doth Erin lie sleeping, Still doth the pure light its dawning delay. When will that day-star, mildly springing, Warm our isle with peace and love? When will heaven, its sweet bell ringing, Call my spirit to the fields above? | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE UNPARDONABLE SIN by NICHOLAS VACHEL LINDSAY CAVALRY CROSSING A FORD by WALT WHITMAN IN THE BELFRY OF THE NIEUWE KERK by THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH JENNY WI' THE AIRN TEETH by ALEXANDER ANDERSON THE LAST RACE by ERNEST HAROLD BAYNES BODY AND SOUL: A METAPHYSICAL ARGUMENT by WILFRID SCAWEN BLUNT OBSERVATIONS IN THE ART OF ENGLISH POESY: 9. TROCHAIC VERSE: THE FIFTH EPIGRAM by THOMAS CAMPION |