Poppies flush all tremulous --
has our love grown into them,
root and stem;
are the red blooms red with us?
Summer's standards are outroll'd,
other lovers wander slow;
I would know
if the morn is that of old.
Here our days bloom fuller yet,
happiness is all our task;
still I ask --
do the vanish'd days forget?
John Le Gay Brereton.
The Sea Maid
In what pearl-paven mossy cave
By what green sea
Art thou reclining, virgin of the wave,
In realms more full of splendid mystery
Than that strong northern flood whence came
The rise and fall of music in thy name --
Thy waiting name, Oithona!
The magic of the sea's own change
In depth and height,
From where the eternal order'd billows range
To unknown regions of sleep-weary night,
Fills, like a wonder-waking spell
Whispered by lips of some lone-murmuring shell,
Thy dreaming soul, Oithona.
In gladness of thy reverie
What gracious form
Will fly the errand of our love to thee,
By ways with winged messengers aswarm
Through dawn of opalescent skies,
To say the time is come and bid thee rise
And be our child, Oithona?
Home
"Where shall we dwell?" say you.
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