Verse > Anthologies > Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, ed. > Poems of Places > Ireland
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, ed.  Poems of Places: An Anthology in 31 Volumes.
Ireland: Vol. V.  1876–79.
Lough Foyle
The Gorsy Glen
Robert Leighton (1822–1869)
BETWEEN Loch-Foyle and Greenan’s ancient fort,
  From Derry’s famous walls a little way,
There dreams a gorsy glen, in whose lone heart
          I mused a Sabbath day.
A nameless glen, one mass of yellow gorse,        5
  That hides the sparkle of a trotting burn,
Save where in dimpling pools it stays its force,
          Or takes a rocky turn.
The sandy linnet sang, the tiny wren
  Poured in the burn its tiny melodies.        10
The air was honey-laden, and the glen
          All murmurous with bees.
A straggling crow, upon its woodward way,
  Might start an echo with its rusty croak;
But all around the quiet Sabbath lay,        15
          Hushed from the week-day yoke.
Near, yet all hidden from, the ways of men,
  No foot into my sanctuary stole;
I wandered with my shadow in the glen,—
          The only living soul.        20
Yet many more were in the glen, ’t would seem:
  I heard, or thought I heard, their whispered words,
And knew ’t was not the bees, the babbling stream,
          Or carol of the birds.
And sometimes through the sunniest gleams of day        25
  There passed a light intenser than the gleam,—
A living soul without its grosser clay?
          Or but my waking dream?
Who knows? who knows? The dream to-day is found
  A verity to-morrow. Things have been        30
Forever with us in our daily round,
          Though now but newly seen.
Ah! could we by a purer life refine
  The veil that keeps the inward from our ken,
No lonely fellowship had then been mine        35
          Within the gorsy glen.
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