Dora Sigerson Shorter (1866–1918)

AT the grey dawn, amongst the falling leaves,

A little bird outside my window swung,

High on a topmost branch he trill’d his song,

And ‘Ireland! Ireland! Ireland!’ ever sung.

‘Take me,’ I cried, ‘back to my island home;

Sweet bird, my soul shall ride between thy wings’;

For my lone spirit wide his pinions spread,

And home and home and home he ever sings.

We linger’d over Ulster stern and wild.

I call’d: ‘Arise! doth none remember me?’

One turnèd in the darkness murmuring,

‘How loud upon the breakers sobs the sea!’

We rested over Connaught—whispering said:

‘Awake, awake, and welcome! I am here.’

One woke and shiver’d at the morning grey;

‘The trees, I never heard them sigh so drear.’

We flew low over Munster. Long I wept:

‘You used to love me, love me once again!’

They spoke from out the shadows wondering;

‘You’d think of tears, so bitter falls the rain.’

Long over Leinster linger’d we. ‘Good-bye!

My best beloved, good-bye for evermore.’

Sleepless they toss’d and whisper’d to the dawn;

‘So sad a wind was never heard before.’

Was it a dream I dreamt? For yet there swings

In the grey morn a bird upon the bough,

And ‘Ireland! Ireland! Ireland!’ ever sings.

O, fair the breaking day in Ireland now!