Red Rose, proud Rose,
sad Rose of all my days!
Come near me, while
I sing the ancient ways:
Cuchulain battling with
the bitter tide;
The Druid, grey, wood-nurtured,
quiet-eyed,
Who cast round Fergus
dreams, and ruin untold;
And thine own sadness,
where of stars, grown old
In dancing silver-sandalled
on the sea,
Sing in their high and
lonely melody.
Come near, that no more
blinded by man's fate,
I find under the boughs
of love and hate,
In all poor foolish
things that live a day,
Eternal beauty wandering
on her way.
Come near, come near,
come near - Ah, leave me still
A little space for the
rose-breath to fill!
Lest I no more bear
common things that crave;
The weak worm hiding
down in its small cave,
The field-mouse running
by me in the grass,
And heavy mortal hopes
that toil and pass;
But seek alone to hear
the strange things said
By God to the bright
hearts of those long dead,
And learn to chaunt
a tongue men do not know.
Come near; I would,
before my time to go,
Sing of old Eire and
the ancient ways:
Red Rose, proud Rose,
sad Rose of all my days. |
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