DRAW in your stools, good folk, for heating And gaze into mine eyes, And see what sets the kind hearts beating, Where the lonesome cricket cries. I was the broom and crooked heather, I was the moss that grew, But time has moulded us together Beneath the years of dew. I kissed the elk's feet in my branches And trembled at his tramp Ages before my purple ranches Were cut to make a clamp. I heard the wild-ducks and the wild-geese Cackling about the lakes, Where nothing now disturbs the mild peace The bog-rush meadow makes. I show that winsome past is dying: Time hid it in my heart Where, by a small stream's endless crying, I heard my youth depart. I hold that past, but I will show it To the Irish faces only. Folk, if you light me, you will know it, When the cricket makes you lonely! Draw near, when round you chills are creeping From winds among the broom, And shadows, from your shoulders leaping, Dance jigs about the room. I have surprises, hid for showing, When by my light you start, Watching the old, queer faces going Across my burning heart. And while I doze in ashes piling, Perhaps yourself you'll see, Through some old Gaelic gateway smiling In my antiquity. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...CHANSON INNOCENTE: 1, FR. TULIPS by EDWARD ESTLIN CUMMINGS ON RECEIVING [THE FIRST] NEWS OF THE WAR by ISAAC ROSENBERG MARY MAGDALEN by BARTOLOME LEONARDO DE ARGENSOLA EPISTLE TO DR. ENFIELD ON HIS REVISITING WARRINGTON IN 1789 by ANNA LETITIA BARBAULD PSALM 5; AUGUST 12, 1653 by OLD TESTAMENT BIBLE |