OCH! 'tis come again, April, the same fine air Breathin' in from the sea -- An' the lad inunder it still, somewhere, That was born o' me -- Let them wag their heads, for 'tis little I care What they do be sayin', that think me quare -- An' why wouldn't I be? O! my grief that my flesh that was his flesh, too, Should withhold me from him! But I know what my soul, when it's free, will do. It will dive an' swim To the cold sea-caves where I'll find my Hugh -- Where the quality lies all one with the crew -- And I'll comfort him. Sure, I'd know him twenty times twelve months dead, For he's bone o' my bone -- An' what way would my soul be comforted In God's heaven alone? -- He will lie with his right arm under his head, But there's never another could find his bed But his mother -- his own. An' why wouldn't I hear him call from the deep On this April morn? Sure, I've felt his call, and myself asleep An' himself unborn! An' they do be sayin' that quare things creep From the depths o' the sea when the spring tides leap Of an April morn. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...HUMPTY DUMPTY RECITATION [OR, SONG] by CHARLES LUTWIDGE DODGSON THE PAST IS THE PRESENT by MARIANNE MOORE THE DESPAIRING LOVER by WILLIAM WALSH (1663-1707) DANUBE AND THE EUXINE by WILLIAM EDMONSTOUNE AYTOUN THE BREAKING POINT by STEPHEN VINCENT BENET |