Treasure Island

Frederick Robert Higgins

(24 April 1896 - 6 January 1941 / Foxford / Ireland)

All Soul's Even


THE grey air was thinning
Over the red lake,
Shading pale herons
Scarcely awake;
Until on still grasses,
On shores of cold dew,
The bright ring of sunset
More brightly grew.

Then mooring my curragh
In yew trees awhile,
I crushed through the wet dusk
Of a deep isle;
And cleaving boughs over
One moonless place,
I stood in the pale light
Of a pale face.

That face it moved gently
As dew on the air;
'O come,' she said softly,
Her eyes told me where;
Her words they grew dreamy,
Her voice gave no fear-
The voice of my true love
Dead for a year!

I loosened my curragh
From a yew bough,
Surrounded by music-
I scarcely hear now
Away on grey waters,
Away on the lake,
And half of my senses
Barely awake.

Submitted: Friday, May 11, 2012
Edited: Friday, May 11, 2012
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