The morning wind goes jocundly And lifts the young boughs' heads: The dew is on the heather bells, It lies on spider webs. And there is one, a princess bright, Who walks with us to-day, Though in the dark and loathly woods Her body hidden lay. No more her song by Flesk and Lee Shall waken in the dawn; No more she'll hear the heather bells, Or see the sun go down. Her bright hair from the Summer boughs The winds of Autumn swept; Her golden voice with all its joy Into the earth has crept. O winds, be still, and streams, be hushed, Nor let the heather bell Ring out across the Munster hills Its silver sound and fell. For we have seen a gentle thing Laid low, that once had been The joy of all the woods and hills, The beauty of the green. The sun that on her yellow hair So lovingly did shine, No more may show a living thing So full of life divine. No more her laughter on the wind Shall meet us in the woods; No more she'll bind with yellow flowers Her fair and snowy roods. Her eyes that had the light of heaven Within their happy blue, Are covered now with earth and leaves, And lost to us and you. She walks no more the heather hills, She sits no more in bower; Her voice is gone from out our lives Like a flame from out a flower. Ah, who shall find so fair a thing When he has need to rest? Who shall bind up his heart's wounds With hair like hers and breast? And who shall make the Winter time A thing of song and joy, As she who walks with us to-day Did when she was a boy? Oh, never more shall we hear the sound Of her sweet, sweet voice again, Or meet her in the early morn Along the Munster plain. Her body sleeps beneath the earth In the dark, loathly woods; But her soul is walking with us here By the waters and the buds. And in the heart of every flower That blows by Flesk and Lee, There is the echo of her voice And her beauty fair to see. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...WE FACE THE FUTURE by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON THE BLACK REGIMENT by GEORGE HENRY BOKER EASTER by WILLIAM HENRY DAVIES IN AN ARTIST'S STUDIO by CHRISTINA GEORGINA ROSSETTI VALENTINES TO MY MOTHER: 1884 by CHRISTINA GEORGINA ROSSETTI |