Arthur Quiller-Couch, comp. The Oxford Book of Victorian Verse. 1922.
A Bird from the WestDora Sigerson Shorter (18661918)
A
A little bird outside my window swung,
High on a topmost branch he trill’d his song,
And ‘Ireland! Ireland! Ireland!’ ever sung.
Sweet bird, my soul shall ride between thy wings’;
For my lone spirit wide his pinions spread,
And home and home and home he ever sings.
I call’d: ‘Arise! doth none remember me?’
One turnèd in the darkness murmuring,
‘How loud upon the breakers sobs the sea!’
‘Awake, awake, and welcome! I am here.’
One woke and shiver’d at the morning grey;
‘The trees, I never heard them sigh so drear.’
‘You used to love me, love me once again!’
They spoke from out the shadows wondering;
‘You’d think of tears, so bitter falls the rain.’
My best beloved, good-bye for evermore.’
Sleepless they toss’d and whisper’d to the dawn;
‘So sad a wind was never heard before.’
In the grey morn a bird upon the bough,
And ‘Ireland! Ireland! Ireland!’ ever sings.
O, fair the breaking day in Ireland now!