WHERE THE SKYLARKS SING

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The summer breezes balmy,

Brought cotton clouds to rest,

They drifted aimless, some were caught,

Upon the mountain crest,

The maid was plucking flowers,

Her shoulder turned aside,

To hide the blush upon her cheek,

Was it a flush of pride?

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That I should speak of poetry,

And sonnets for her heart,

Create a word-spun spider web,

That brings romance to art.

Gay she stepped through flowers,

Beguiled and won my soul,

I chased till she had caught me,

We both then reached our goal.

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She sat her chin within her hands,

Then smiled a thought unknown,

I closed my eyes and dreamed that she,

Might one day be my own?

We felt the heather in the air,

We heard the skylark sing,

The curlew’s call to higher realm,

Where seagull rests their wing.

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In her hands the harvest,

Of pastures summer filled,

Across the vale, the dingle dale,

Where summer flowers spilt.

To ripple, dance to summer’s tune,

The ocean’s breathing sigh,

Where skylarks sing and flowers grow,

And maiden lovers lie.

Forbidden Pro-European Poetry of Mícheál Walsh

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