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  ― 48 ―

Rainbow Gold

THE mists are rising on Brognahee,
There's a cuckoo calling down Gwelna Hold,
And, oh, but it's there that I long to be,
Dreaming the dreams of old.

Oh, I dreamed a dream 'twixt the moon-set white
And the wild red dawn of a haunted day;
Kiss me, nor chide me, O Heart's Delight,
For I must away, away.

Soft is the sunlight on Brognahee,
Softer the shadows in Gwelna Hold;
But I hear the fairy folk calling me,
Gathering rainbow gold.

“Oh, it's far and far to the rainbow's rim;
It is far and far,” said my love to me,
“And your heart will ache and your eyes grow dim,
Yearning for Brognahee.

“Tarry awhile, for the bluebell blows,
And the bonnets o' buttercups bend and nod;
Tarry awhile, my Heart o' the Rose,
For the spell of the golden-rod!”

Oh, the rainbow gold is far to find,
And sharp are the spears of the hillside sleet,
But I follow and follow all faint and blind
The prints of the fairy feet.

Is it wings or winds by the salt sea foam,
Or came the call of my love to me?
“Heart o' the Rose, come home, come home,
With the swallows to Brognahee!”




  ― 49 ―
But faint I follow and fast they flee
(Years o' days are a tale that's told),
And weary, weary the heart of me,
Seeking for rainbow gold.

Swallow and swallow on bounding wings,
Where the far fell gleams in the furze-fire light,
Pilot me back to the dear home things,
Pilot me home to-night!

It is far, so far to the rainbow's rim,
It is far, so far that my feet must fail,
Though the crocks of gold be full to the brim
Down in the fairy vale.

And never a swallow will stay his flight;
The fairies are fled and the world is chill;
Oh, have you forgotten me, Heart's Delight,
Are you watching and calling still?

Late, ah, late in a lonely day
Shall it profit me now that I held in fee
More of delight than a mortal may?
Ah, bitter-sweet Brognahee!

Shall it profit me now that the hills we trod
Were templed halls of the gods of old,
And the misty cups of the golden-rod
Were brimming with rainbow gold?

The bonnets o' buttercups bend and blow,
And over the dark of the distance swells,
Now sad and solemn, now soft and low,
The tolling of fairy bells.

The mists are rising on Brognahee,
There's a cuckoo calling down Gwelna Hold,
And, oh, but it's there that I long to be,
Dreaming the dreams of old.

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