Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, IRISH HILLS, by KATHARINE TYNAN


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

IRISH HILLS, by             Poem Explanation         Poet's Biography
First Line: I look unto mine own blue hills
Last Line: And the lark chants at the gates of heaven
Alternate Author Name(s): Hinkson, Katharine Tynan
Subject(s): Mountains


I LOOK unto mine own blue hills,
That gaze across the land,
And all their peace my hot heart stills;
Yea, I begin to understand
How beautiful exceedingly
The everlasting hills shall be.


The everlasting hills - it seems
The name to call these by;
Oh, my fair hills, as blue as dreams
Of a passionate Italian sky;
Blue as the violet fields that spread
Girt with pale primrose overhead!


Yester eve they were silver-grey,
Soft as a young dove's breast;
And rose and amber hues have they
When the sun goes in the saffron west;
And all the vales are purple-black,
Below the paling day-star's track.


I know all tender shades on them,
I love them in all moods
Kingly robe and diadem,
Or mist that like a grey bird broods;
Their vapoury clouds that sail and glide,
The rain that clothes them like a bride.


My hills are like great angels,
Whose wide wings sweep the stars,
And peace for their evangels
Cried clear across earth's fumes and jars;
My hills stand all unchangingly,
While man's short days go by, go by.


And here they see the green woods stand,
And there they gaze to sea,
Where the white ships glide from the strand,
And the waves moan perpetually;
With De Profundis on their lips
For some who go to the sea in ships


The sails drop o'er the verge o' the world,
Like lonely birds that fly,
In the autumn days, with wings unfurled,
Seeking Summer that will not die;
Sailing down to the Southern Star,
Where purple Summer islands are.


Sad is the sea that speaks to me
Of parting and of pain,
Of some that go all hopefully,
And never see their land again.
Ah me, o'er many a lonely grave,
The desolate long sea-grasses wave.


Give me mine own hills, and my woods
That toss their branches high,
Within whose dusky solitudes
The thrushes sing all innocently;
The blackbird pipes at dawn and even,
And the lark chants at the gates of heaven.






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