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!
Sombre and rich, the skies;
Great glooms, and starry plains.
Gently the night wind sighs;
Else a vast silence reigns.
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: