The Little Black Rose shall be red at last; What made it black but the March-wind dry, And the tear of the Widow that fell on it fast? It shall redden the hills when June is nigh. The Silk of the Kine shall rest at last;-- What drove her forth but the dragon-fly? In the Golden Vale she shall feed full fast, With her mild gold horn, and her slow dark eye. The wounded Wood-dove lies dead at last; The pine long bleeding it shall not die; Their song is secret. Mine ear it passed In a wind o'er the plains of Athenry. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...FULL OF LIFE NOW by WALT WHITMAN FRATERNITY by ANNE REEVE ALDRICH THE VIOLIN'S ENCHANTRESS by WILLIAM ROSE BENET THE ITALIAN IN ENGLAND by ROBERT BROWNING IN RETROSPECT by MARGARET E. BRUNER |