Dora Sigerson Shorter (Дора Сигерсон Шортер)
A Bird from the West
At the grey dawn, amongst the felling leaves, A little bird outside my window swung, High on a topmost branch he trilled his song, And “Ireland! Ireland! Ireland!” ever sung. Take me, I cried, back to my island home; Sweet bird, my soul shall ride between thy wings; For my lone spirit wide his pinions spread, And home and home and home he ever sings. We lingered over Ulster stern and wild. I called: “Arise! doth none remember me?” One turnèd in the darkness murmuring, “How loud upon the breakers sobs the sea!” We rested over Connaught—whispering said: “Awake, awake, and welcome! I am here.” One woke and shivered at the morning grey; “The trees, I never heard them sigh so drear.” We flew low over Munster. Long I wept: “You used to love me, love me once again!” They spoke from out the shadows wondering; “You’d think of tears, so bitter falls the rain.” Long over Leinster lingered we. “Good-bye! My best beloved, good-bye for evermore.” Sleepless they tossed and whispered to the dawn; “So sad a wind was never heard before.” Was it a dream I dreamt? For yet there swings In the grey morn a bird upon the bough, And “Ireland! Ireland! Ireland!” ever sings. Oh! fair the breaking day in Ireland now.
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