DARK Angel, with thine aching lust
To rid the world of penitence:
Malicious Angel, who still dost
My soul such subtile violence!
I HATE you with a necessary hate.
First, I sought patience: passionate was she:
My patience turned in very scorn of me,
Ah! fair face gone from sight,
With all its light
Of eyes that pierced the deep!
Oh human night!
A VOICE on the winds,
A voice by the waters,
Wanders and cries:
Oh! what are the winds?
A TERRIBLE and splendid trust,
Heartens the host of Innisfail;
Their dream is of the swift sword-thrust;
The lightning glory of the Gael.
Why, no Sir! If a barren rascal cries,
That he is most in love with pleasing woe,
GO from me: I am one of those who fall.
What! hath no cold wind swept your heart at all,
In my sad company? Before the end,
SUMMER lightning, and rich rain:
Roses perfume the hot air.
All the breathless night is faint,
To Olivier Georges Destrée
IN Merioneth, over the sad moor
Drives the rain, the cold wind blows: