Publisher's Synopsis
Excerpt from An Irish Garland
And the leaves that the withering year let fall, He swept, with the ivy, away; And, as we read on the rock the words That, writ in the moss, we found, Right over his bosom a shower of birds In music fell to the ground.) Young poet, I wonder did you care, Did it move you in your rest To hear that child in his golden hair, From the mighty woods of the West, Repeating your verse of his own sweet will, To the sound of the twilight bell, Years after your beating heart was still In the churchyard of Clonmel?
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