Edward Dowden (3 May 1843 - 4 April 1913 / Co. Cork / Ireland)
SPRING scarce had greener fields to show than these
Of mid September; through the still warm noon
The rivulets ripple forth a gladder tune
Than ever in the summer; from the trees
Dusk-green, and murmuring inward melodies,
No leaf drops yet; only our evenings swoon
In pallid skies more suddenly, and the moon
Finds motionless white mists out on the leas.
Dear chance it were in some rough wood-god's lair
A month hence, gazing on the last bright field,
To sink o'er-drowsed, and dream that wild-flowers blew
Around my head and feet silently there,
Till Spring's glad choir adown the valley pealed,
And violets trembled in the morning dew.
Poet Other Poems
- A New Hymn for Solitude
- By the Window
- Deus Absconditus
- Durer's 'Melencholia'
- First Love
- In July
- In September
- In The Cathedral
- In the Cathedral Close
- In The Garden I: The Garden
- In The Garden II: Visions
- In The Garden III: An Interior
Read this poem in other languages
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.