Bliss Carman, et al., eds. The World’s Best Poetry. 1904.
III. The SeasonsWicklow Winds
George Francis Savage-Armstrong (18451906)Y
And o’er our heads its woodlands smile;
Behold it, love—the garden sweet
And playground of our stormy isle.
Is it not fair—the leafy land?
Not boasting Nature’s sterner pride,
Voluptuous beauty, scenes that stand
By minds immortal deified.
Fair when the woodland strains and creaks
As loud the gathering whirlwinds blow,
And through the smoke-like mists the Peaks
In warm autumnal purples glow;
Storm-swept upon the seaward steep,
As far below them foams and fumes
On beach and cliff the wrathful deep,
Old Djouce’s ridges swathe in night,
And down through all his hollows pour
The foaming torrents swoln and white;
With crests that down the tempest lean,
Bend, braving winter’s fiercest moods,
The pines in all their wealth of green.