Edward Dowden(3 May 1843 - 4 April 1913 / Co. Cork / Ireland)
- by Edward Dowden67
My long first year of perfect love, My deep new dream of joy; She was a little chubby girl, I was a chubby boy.
I wore a crimson frock, white drawers, A belt, a crown was on it; She wore some angel's kind of dress And such a tiny bonnet,
Old-fashioned, but the soft brown hair Would never keep its place; A little maid with violet eyes, And sunshine in her face.
O my child-queen, in those lost days How sweet was daily living! How humble and how proud I grew, How rich by merely giving!
She went to school, the parlour-maid Slow stepping to her trot; That parlour-maid, ah, did she feel How lofty was her lot! Across the road I saw her lift My Queen, and with a sigh I envied Raleigh; my new coat Was hung a peg too high.
A hoard of never-given gifts I cherished, priceless pelf; 'Twas two whole days ere I devoured That peppermint myself.
In Church I only prayed for her 'O God bless Lucy Hill;' Child, may His angels keep their arms Ever around you still.
But when the hymn came round, with heart That feared some heart's surprising Its secret sweet, I climbed the seat 'Mid rustling and uprising;
And there against her mother's arm The sleeping child was leaning, While far away the hymn went on, The music and the meaning.
Oh I loved with more of pain Since then, with more of passion, Loved with the aching in my love After our grown-up fashion;
Yet could I almost be content To lose here at your feet A year or two, you murmuring elm, To dream a dream so sweet.
In The Garden I: The Garden
- by Edward Dowden36
PAST the town's clamour is a garden full Of loneness and old greenery; at noon When birds are hush'd, save one dim cushat's croon, A ripen'd silence hangs beneath the cool Great branches; basking roses dream and drop A petal, and dream still; and summer's boon Of mellow grasses, to be levell'd soon By a dew-drenched scythe, will hardly stop At the uprunning mounds of chestnut trees. Still let me muse in this rich haunt by day, And know all night in dusky placidness It lies beneath the summer, while great ease Broods in the leaves, and every light wind's stress Lifts a faint odour down the verdurous way.
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