Page:The Collected Poems of Dora Sigerson Shorter.djvu/155



Half seated on a mossy crag, Half crouching in the heather; I found a little Irish maid, All in June's golden weather.

Like some fond hand that loved the child, The wind tossed back her tresses; The heath-bells touched her unclad feet With shy and soft caresses.

A mountain linnet flung his song Into the air around her; But all in vain the splendid hour, For deep in woe I found her.

“Ahone! Ahone! Ahone!” she wept, The tears fell fast and faster; I sat myself beside her there, To hear of her disaster.

Like dew on roses down her cheek The diamond drops were stealing; She laid her two brown hands in mine, Her trouble all revealing.

Alas! Alas! the tale she told In Gaelic low and tender; A plague upon my Saxon tongue, I could not comprehend her.