I live where the shade is,
And rusted Life’s blade is—
The sand-drifts from Hades
Have tarnished each charm:
But, sober or shicker,
My heart-pulse beats quicker
Whenever I think of
Kildea’s flower farm!
’Twas not the green sward, or
The spangled disorder
Along the path border
That led to their gate;
Nor mazes and mazes
Of heartsease and daisies,
That blossomed so early
And lingered so late:
It was not the ringing
Of crimson bells swinging—
It was not the singing
Of elves in the corn—
Nor fairy beds, laden
With rose-wreaths from Aidenn,
That smiled like a child, in
The face of the morn!
Ah, the roses so bloomy
That held me and drew me—
The thrill that shot through me,
’Neath blue skies or grey—
The fear that oppressed me,
The hope that caressed me,
All dwelt ’neath the bonnet
Of Katy Kildea!
With callous years flying,
And Youth’s fountains drying,
One memory undying
Lives always attuned:
And, if plucked from its setting,
Forgot and forgetting,
The best of my being
Would flow through the wound!
I live where the shade is—
And rusted Life’s blade is—
The sand-drifts from Hades
Have tarnished its charm:
But, sober or shicker,
My heart-pulse beats quicker
Whenever I think of
Kildea’s flower farm.