HALF seated on a mossy crag, Half crouching in the heather; I found a little Irish maid, All in June's golden weather. Like some fond hand that loved the child, The wind tossed back her tresses; The heath-bells touched her unclad feet With shy and soft caresses. A mountain linnet flung his song Into the air around her; But all in vain the splendid hour, For deep in woe I found her. "Ahone! Ahone! Ahone!" she wept, The tears fell fast and faster; I sat myself beside her there, To hear of her disaster. Like dew on roses down her cheek The diamond drops were stealing; She laid her two brown hands in mine, Her trouble all revealing. Alas! Alas! the tale she told In Gaelic low and tender; A plague upon my Saxon tongue, I could not comprehend her. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...FOR THE INVESTITURE by CECIL DAY LEWIS FISH-LEAP FALL by ROBERT FROST WHAT WE SAID THE LIGHT SAID by JAMES GALVIN DELUSION by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON THE ROAD TO AVIGNON by AMY LOWELL |