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Classic and Contemporary Poetry
GLENS OF WICKLOW, by GEORGE FRANCIS SAVAGE-ARMSTRONG Poet's Biography First Line: Glens of wicklow, o'er the sea Last Line: Cared with loving-tenderness. | |||
GLENS of Wicklow, o'er the sea Comes to-night a voice to me, Bidding faint-winged Memory hie Backward to the years that lie 'Mid a past so drear and clouded The sick heart, in sorrow shrouded, Seldom dares to peer at it, But where sun-born phantoms flit; And I roam, a blissful child, Through your woodland-hollows wild, Hear your plunging cataracts cry, Watch the wild-hawks in the sky, Climb the fraughan-tufted steep, Down the dizzy gorges peep; And in boyhood's vision see The sweet false dreams of days to be. Glens of Wicklow, forest-crowned, In your deeps a Spirit I found Strayed adown the sunbeams golden 'Twixt the bearded branches olden To the torrent's pools of gold; And her eyes, beneath the fold Of bright tresses aureoled, Held within their azure wells Magic smiles and wildering spells; And she chanted down the breeze Songs that swayed me as swept trees Tossed i' the whirlwind; till I panted For the things whereof she chanted, -- Victory's wreath, and Wisdom's dower, Glory of great deeds, and Power, Knowledge, Fame for endless days, The world's worship, the world's praise. Ah, I think that truer-hearted Lived I then, or e'er I parted, Following her wild music's flight By weird ways through thickest night, To find bitter her most sweet! Now anew my pulses beat To a music old and dear Dropping dreamily on mine ear -- Sound of rivulets o'er the rocks, Bleating of the mountain flocks, Buzz of bess in blooms a-sway, Laughter of light winds at play, Blackbird's pipe and robin's trill, Patter of nuthatch's bill, Crash of boughs where the squirrel leaps, Splash of troutlet in still deeps, Herdsman's cry, and maiden's song, Sounds that unto you belong, And whereon my spirit fed In the purer summers sped, Finding life and goodliest rest, Nursed on kindly Nature's breast. Glens of Wicklow, torrent-cloven, Round your streams my life was woven; Even now as faces fled Of the dearest droopt and dead Flashing on the changed brain, To revive a soul nigh slain With the loss of their love's dower And that withereth hour by hour, Are ye to my heart left dry By a drear Philosophy. What of beauty here remaineth From your olden influence raineth; What of noble in me liveth, That your far-off impulse giveth; What of childhood's heart here stays Is your boon of the olden days, Folded in your mild caress, Cared with loving-tenderness. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...HELEN'S TOWER by GEORGE FRANCIS SAVAGE-ARMSTRONG HOME-LONGINGS: GWEEDORE, COUNTY DONEGAL by GEORGE FRANCIS SAVAGE-ARMSTRONG LUGNAQUILLIA by GEORGE FRANCIS SAVAGE-ARMSTRONG MY GUIDE by GEORGE FRANCIS SAVAGE-ARMSTRONG ONE IN THE INFINITE by GEORGE FRANCIS SAVAGE-ARMSTRONG SILENCE by GEORGE FRANCIS SAVAGE-ARMSTRONG SUMMER RHYME by GEORGE FRANCIS SAVAGE-ARMSTRONG THE MYSTERY by GEORGE FRANCIS SAVAGE-ARMSTRONG THE SHAWLIE by GEORGE FRANCIS SAVAGE-ARMSTRONG THE WEE LASSIE'S FIRST LUVE by GEORGE FRANCIS SAVAGE-ARMSTRONG |
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