Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, SPRING FLOWERS FROM IRELAND, by DENIS FLORENCE MCCARTHY

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SPRING FLOWERS FROM IRELAND, by             Poet's Biography
First Line: Within the letters rustling fold
Last Line: And think the violet eyes thine own.
Alternate Author Name(s): Maccarthy, Denis Florence
Subject(s): Flowers; Ireland; Irish

Within the letter's rustling fold
I find, once more -- a glad surprise:
A tiny little cup of gold --
Two lovely violet eyes; --
A cup of gold with emeralds set,
Once filled with wine from happier spheres;
Two little eyes so lately wet
With spring's delicious dewy tears.

Oh! little eyes that wept and laughed,
Now bright with smiles, with tears now dim;
Oh! little cup that once was quaffed
By fay-queens fluttering round thy rim.
I press each silken fringe's fold --
Sweet little eyes, once more ye shine;
I kiss thy lip, oh! cup of gold,
And find thee full of memory's wine.

Within their violet depths I gaze,
And see, as in the camera's gloom,
The Island with its belt of bays,
Its chieftained heights all capped with broom;
Which, as the living lens it fills,
Now seems a giant charmed to sleep --
Now a broad shield embossed with hills,
Upon the bosom of the deep.

There by the gentler mountain's slope --
That happiest year of many a year,
That first swift year of love and hope --
With her then dear and ever dear,
I sat upon the rustic seat --
The seat an aged bay-tree crowns --
And saw outspreading from our feet
The golden glory of the Downs.

The furze-crowned heights, the glorious glen,
The white-walled chapel glistening near,
The house of God, the homes of men,
The fragrant hay, the ripening ear;
There, where there seemed nor sin, nor crime,
There in God's sweet and wholesome air --
Strange book to read at such a time --
We read of Vanity's false Fair.

We read the painful pages through --
Perceiving the skill, admired the art,
Felt them if true, not wholly true --
A truer truth was in our heart.
Save fear and love of One, hath proved
The sage, how vain is all below;
And one was there who feared and loved,
And one who loved that she was so.

The vision spreads, the memories grow,
Fair phantoms crowd the more I gaze.
Oh! cup of gold, with wine o'erflow,
I'll drink to those departed days:
And when I drain the golden cup
To them, to those, I ne'er can see,
With wine of hope I'll fill it up,
And drink to days that yet may be.

I've drunk the future and the past,
Now for a draught of warmer wine --
One draught the sweetest and the last --
Lady, I'll drink to thee and thine.
These flowers that to my breast I fold,
Into my very heart have grown --
To thee I drain the cup of gold,
And think the violet eyes thine own.

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