The Modern PoetFor your words and others.
Release 15
Always tinkering.

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This round: quieter reading, book-style chapters, and one HH throughout.

THE MODERN POET

Though the Last Glimpse of Erin with Sorrow I See

By Thomas Moore

Though the last glimpse of Erin with sorrow I see, Yet wherever thou art shall seem Erin to me; In exile thy bosom shall still be my home, And thine eyes make my climate wherever we roam. To the gloom of some desert or cold rocky shore, Where the eye of the stranger can haunt us no more, I will fly with my Coulin, and think the rough wind Less rude than the foes we leave frowning behind. And I'll gaze on thy gold hair as graceful it wreathes, And hang o'er thy soft harp, as wildly it breathes; Nor dread that the cold-hearted Saxon will tear One chord from that harp, or one lock from that hair.

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Poetry data from PoetryDB, curated by The Combed Thunderclap · metadata CC BY 4.0 · Public-domain poem text (USA)

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