SAINT BRIGID by ROSA MULHOLLAND

'MiD dewy pastures girdled with blue air,
Where ruddy kine the limpid waters drink,
Through violet-purpled woods of green Kildare,
'Neath rainbow skies, by tinkling rivulet's brink,
O Brigid, young, thy tender, snow-white feet
In days of old on breezy morns and eves
Wandered through labyrinths of sun and shade,
Thy face so innocent- sweet
Shining with love that neither joys nor grieves
Save as the angels, meek and holy maid!

With white fire in thy hand that burned no man,
But cleansed and warmed where'er its ray might fall,
Nor ever wasted low, or needed fan,
Thou walk'dst at eve among the oak-trees tall.
There thou didst chant thy vespers, while each star
Grew brighter listening through the leafy screen.
Then ceased the song-bird all his love-notes soft,
His music near or far,

Hushing his passion 'mid the sombre green
To let thy peaceful whispers float aloft.
And still from heavenly choirs thou steal' st by night
To tell sweet Aves in the woods unseen,
To tend the shrine -lamps with thy flambeau white
And set thy tender footprints in the green.
Thus sing our birds with holy note and pure,
As though the loves of angels were their theme;
Thus burn to throbbing flame our sacred fires
With heats that still endure;
Thence hath our daffodil its golden gleam,
From thy dear mindfulness that never tires!

Classic and Contemporary Poetry

Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!

Other Poems of Interest...