Читать книгу Dreams and Images: An Anthology of Catholic Poets - Various - Страница 37

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By T. A. Daly

I heard thee, joyous votary,

Pour forth thy heart in one

Sweet simple strain of melody

To greet the rising sun,

When he across the morning’s verge his first faint flare had flung

And found the crimson of thy breast the whisp’ring leaves among,

In thine own tree

Which sheltered thee,

Thy mate, thy nest, thy young.

I marked thee, sorrow’s votary,

When in the noon of day

Young vandals stormed thy sacred tree

And bore thine all away;

The notes of grief that rent thy breast touched kindred chords in mine,

For memories of other days, though slumbering still confine

In mine own heart

The bitter smart

Of sorrow such as thine.

I hear thee now, sweet votary,

Beside thy ruined nest,

Lift up thy flood of melody

Against the crimsoned west,

Forgetful of all else in this, thy one sweet joyous strain.

I thank thee for this ecstasy of my remembered pain;

Thou liftest up

My sorrow’s cup

To sweeten it again.