Poetry Forum Areas

Introduce Yourself

New to PoetrySoup? Introduce yourself here. Tell us something about yourself.

Looking for a Poem

Can't find a poem you've read before? Looking for a poem for a special person or an occasion? Ask other member for help.

Writing Poetry

Ways to improve your poetry. Post your techniques, tips, and creative ideas how to write better.

High Critique

For poets who want unrestricted constructive criticism. This is NOT a vanity workshop. If you do not want your poem seriously critiqued, do not post here. Constructive criticism only. PLEASE Only Post One Poem a Day!!!

How do I...?

Ask PoetrySoup Members how to do something or find something on PoetrySoup.

You have an ad blocker! We understand, but...

PoetrySoup is a small privately owned website. Our means of support comes from advertising revenue. We want to keep PoetrySoup alive, make it better, and keep it free. Please support us by disabling your ad blocker on PoetrySoup. See how to enable ads while keeping your ad blocker active. Also, did you know you can become a PoetrySoup Lifetime Premium Member and block ads forever...while getting many more great features. Take a look! Thank you!

Abbey Assaroe

 Gray, gray is Abbey Assaroe, by Belashanny town, 
It has neither door nor window, the walls are broken down; 
The carven-stones lie scatter'd in briar and nettle-bed!
The only feet are those that come at burial of the dead.
A little rocky rivulet runs murmuring to the tide, Singing a song of ancient days, in sorrow, not in pride; The boortree and the lightsome ash across the portal grow, And heaven itself is now the roof of Abbey Assaroe.
It looks beyond the harbour-stream to Gulban mountain blue; It hears the voice of Erna's fall - Atlantic breakers too; High ships go sailing past it; the sturdy clank of oars Brings in the salmon-boat to haul a net upon the shores; And this way to his home-creek, when the summer day is done, Slow sculls the weary fisherman across the setting sun; While green with corn is Sheegus Hill, his cottage white below; But gray at every season is Abbey Assaroe.
There stood one day a poor old man above its broken bridge; He heard no running rivulet, he saw no mountain-ridge; He turn'd his back on Sheegus Hill, and view'd with misty sight The Abbey walls, the burial-ground with crosses ghostly white; Under a weary weight of years he bow'd upon his staff, Perusing in the present time the former's epitaph; For, gray and wasted like the walls, a figure full of woe, This man was of the blood of them who founded Assaroe.
From Derry to Bundrowas Tower, Tirconnell broad was theirs; Spearmen and plunder, bards and wine, and holy Abbot's prayers; With chanting always in the house which they had builded high To God and to Saint Bernard - where at last they came to die.
At worst, no workhouse grave for him! the ruins of his race Shall rest among the ruin'd stones of this their saintly place.
The fond old man was weeping; and tremulous and slow Along the rough and crooked lane he crept from Assaroe.

Poem by
Biography | Poems | Best Poems | Short Poems | Quotes | Email Poem - Abbey AssaroeEmail Poem | Create an image from this poem

Poems are below...

Top William Allingham Poems

Analysis and Comments on Abbey Assaroe

Provide your analysis, explanation, meaning, interpretation, and comments on the poem Abbey Assaroe here.