Classic and Contemporary Poetry
SPRING FLOWERS FROM IRELAND, by DENIS FLORENCE MCCARTHY 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. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE SIGHTSEERS by PAUL MULDOON THE DREAM SONGS: 290 by JOHN BERRYMAN AN IRISH HEADLAND by ROBINSON JEFFERS THE GIANT'S RING: BALLYLESSON, NEAR BELFAST by ROBINSON JEFFERS IRELAND; WRITTEN FOR THE ART AUTOGRAPH DURING IRISH FAMINE by SIDNEY LANIER THE EYES ARE ALWAYS BROWN by GERALD STERN IRELAND (1847) by DENIS FLORENCE MCCARTHY |
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