HINKSON
O the red rose may be fair,And the lily statelier;But my shamrock, one in three,Takes the very heart of me!Many a lover hath the roseWhen June’s musk-wind breathes and blows;And in many a bower is heardHer sweet praise from bee and bird.Through the gold hours dreameth she,In her warm heart passionately,Her fair face hung languid-wise:O her breath of honey and spice!Like a fair saint virginalStands your lily silver and tall;Over all the flowers that beIs my shamrock dear to me.Shines the lily like the sun,Crystal-pure, a cold sweet nun;With her austere lip she singsTo her heart of heavenly things.Gazeth through a night of JuneTo her sister-saint the moon;With the stars communeth longOf the angels and their song.But when summer died last yearRose and lily died with her;Shamrock stayeth every day,Be the winds or gold or grey.Irish hills, grey as the dove,Know the little plant I love;Warm and fair it mantles them,Stretching down from throat to hem.And it laughs o’er many a vale,Sheltered safe from storm and gale;Sky and sun and stars thereofLove the gentle plant I love.Soft it clothes the ruined floor,Of many an abbey, grey and hoar,And the still home of the deadWith its green is carpeted.Roses for an hour of love,With the joy and pain thereof;Stand my lilies white to seeAll for prayer and purity.These are white as the harvest moon,Roses flush like the heart of June;But my shamrock brave and gay,Glads the tired eyes every day.O the red rose shineth rare,And the lily saintly fair;But my shamrock, one in three,Takes the inmost heart of me!Katharine Tynan Hinkson.
O the red rose may be fair,And the lily statelier;But my shamrock, one in three,Takes the very heart of me!Many a lover hath the roseWhen June’s musk-wind breathes and blows;And in many a bower is heardHer sweet praise from bee and bird.Through the gold hours dreameth she,In her warm heart passionately,Her fair face hung languid-wise:O her breath of honey and spice!Like a fair saint virginalStands your lily silver and tall;Over all the flowers that beIs my shamrock dear to me.Shines the lily like the sun,Crystal-pure, a cold sweet nun;With her austere lip she singsTo her heart of heavenly things.Gazeth through a night of JuneTo her sister-saint the moon;With the stars communeth longOf the angels and their song.But when summer died last yearRose and lily died with her;Shamrock stayeth every day,Be the winds or gold or grey.Irish hills, grey as the dove,Know the little plant I love;Warm and fair it mantles them,Stretching down from throat to hem.And it laughs o’er many a vale,Sheltered safe from storm and gale;Sky and sun and stars thereofLove the gentle plant I love.Soft it clothes the ruined floor,Of many an abbey, grey and hoar,And the still home of the deadWith its green is carpeted.Roses for an hour of love,With the joy and pain thereof;Stand my lilies white to seeAll for prayer and purity.These are white as the harvest moon,Roses flush like the heart of June;But my shamrock brave and gay,Glads the tired eyes every day.O the red rose shineth rare,And the lily saintly fair;But my shamrock, one in three,Takes the inmost heart of me!Katharine Tynan Hinkson.
O the red rose may be fair,And the lily statelier;But my shamrock, one in three,Takes the very heart of me!
Many a lover hath the roseWhen June’s musk-wind breathes and blows;And in many a bower is heardHer sweet praise from bee and bird.
Through the gold hours dreameth she,In her warm heart passionately,Her fair face hung languid-wise:O her breath of honey and spice!
Like a fair saint virginalStands your lily silver and tall;Over all the flowers that beIs my shamrock dear to me.
Shines the lily like the sun,Crystal-pure, a cold sweet nun;With her austere lip she singsTo her heart of heavenly things.
Gazeth through a night of JuneTo her sister-saint the moon;With the stars communeth longOf the angels and their song.
But when summer died last yearRose and lily died with her;Shamrock stayeth every day,Be the winds or gold or grey.
Irish hills, grey as the dove,Know the little plant I love;Warm and fair it mantles them,Stretching down from throat to hem.
And it laughs o’er many a vale,Sheltered safe from storm and gale;Sky and sun and stars thereofLove the gentle plant I love.
Soft it clothes the ruined floor,Of many an abbey, grey and hoar,And the still home of the deadWith its green is carpeted.
Roses for an hour of love,With the joy and pain thereof;Stand my lilies white to seeAll for prayer and purity.
These are white as the harvest moon,Roses flush like the heart of June;But my shamrock brave and gay,Glads the tired eyes every day.
O the red rose shineth rare,And the lily saintly fair;But my shamrock, one in three,Takes the inmost heart of me!
Katharine Tynan Hinkson.