Читать книгу Lyra Celtica: An Anthology of Representative Celtic Poetry онлайн

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The song of thy wounded heart.

O youth! thou who hast departed,

And left my grey and helpless hairs,

What land has heard on its winds

Thy cry come o’er its rocks?

Are the tears in thy eye, O maiden?

Thou of the lovely brow and lily hand;

Brightness be around thee for ever!

Thou shalt return no more from the narrow bed!

Tell me, O winds! since now I see them not,

Where grow the murmuring reeds?

The reeds which sigh where rest the trout

On their still transparent fins.

O raise and bear me on your hands,

Lay my head beneath the young boughs,

That their shade may veil my eyes

When the sun shall rise on high.

And thou, O gentle sleep!

Whose course is with the stars of night;

Be near with thy dreams of song

To bring back my days of joy.

My soul beholds the maid!

In the shade of the mighty oak,

Her white hand beneath her golden hair,

Her soft eye on her beloved.

He is near—but she is silent,

His beating heart is lost in song,

Their souls beam from their eyes—

Deer stand on the hill!