The puff o' smoke from one ould roof before an English town! For a shaugh wid Andy Feelan here I'd give a silver crown, For a curl o' hair like Mollie's ye 'll ask the like in vain, Sweet Corrymeela, an' the same soft rain. ATHERS o' Moyle an' the white gulls flyin', W Deep great seas, an' a sthrong wind sighin' Over a waste o' wathers green. Slemish an' Trostan, dark wi' heather, Sure ye have snows in the winter weather, Lone Glen Dun an' the wild glen flowers, Wathers o' Moyle, I hear ye callin' Antrim hills an' the wet rain fallin' Whiles ye are nearer than snow-tops keen: Moira O'Neill. The Lake WILL arise and go now, and go to Innisfree, And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made; Nine bean rows will I have there, a hive for the honey bee, And live alone in the bee-loud glade. And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow, Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the cricket sings; There midnight's all a glimmer, and noon a purple glow, And evening full of the linnet's wings. I will arise and go now, for always, night and day, I hear lake-water lapping with low sounds by the shore; While I stand on the roadway or on the pavements gray, I hear it in the deep heart's core. W. B. Yeats. |