Notes About The Poem
(Form III — Droighneach)
The Emerald Valley
(Form III — Droighneach)
The mist is shifting slowly, a soft-felt, creeping,
Along the valley side in gentle waking;
The river Shannon, in its beauty sleeping,
Before the dawn of light is early breaking.
The fields of emerald-green are richly wearing,
The morning dew of bright-felt, dewy shining;
A gentle breeze is soft, a gentle airing,
The hawthorn hedge with flowers is thick-twining.
A silent, ancient ringfort, green and lonely,
Stands watcher o’er the land in solemn slumber;
The hawthorn blossoms white, the fairies only,
Can count the blooms in such a vast-felt number.
The sheep are white as snow, a grazing, grazing,
They wander slowly on hills, a gentle roaming;
The landscape far and wide is quite amazing,
As a quiet evening brings the early gloaming.
The smell of turf-fire smoke, a gentle, drifting,
Upon the chilly air, a pleasant turning;
The clouds in western skies are softly shifting,
While in the hearth, the winter spire is burning.
My heart is fast in love, and faintly, quiet,
With all the gentle scenes of hidden places;
The fields, the streams, the wood, a muted riot,
And all the ancient, wispy, lovely graces.
I roam the bog-land, soft-felt, peaceful, treading,
Where cotton-grass is white, a shining wonder;
A sense of inner peace is gently spreading,
While I look upon the beauty and ponder.
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