Rich and rare were the gems she wore,
And a bright gold ring on her wand she bore;
But oh! her beauty was far beyond
Her sparkling gems, or snow-white wand.

"Lady, dost thou not fear to stray,
So lone and lovely through this bleak way?
Are Erin's sons so good or so cold
As not to be tempted by woman or gold?"

"Sir Knight! I feel not the least alarm,
No son of Erin will offer me harm:
For, though they love woman and golden store,
Sir Knight! they love honour and virtue more!"

On she went, and her maiden smile
In safety lighted her round the green isle;
And blest for ever is she who relied
Upon Erin's honour and Erin’s pride.

May Noon

How sweet it is, when suns get warmly high,
In the mid-noon, as May's first cowslip springs,
And the young cuckoo his soft ditty sings,
To wander out, and take a book; and lie
'Neath some low pasture-bush, by guggling springs
That shake the sprouting flag as crimpling by;
Or where the sunshine freckles on the eye
Through the half-clothed branches in the woods;
Where airy leaves of woodbines, scrambling nigh,
Are earliest venturers to unfold their buds;
And little rippling runnels curl their floods,
Bathing the primrose-peep, and strawberry wild,
And cuckoo-flowers just creeping from their hoods,
With the sweet season, like their bard, beguil'd.

The stars are with the voyager
Wherever he may sail;
The moon is constant to her time;
The sun will never fail;

But follow, follow round the world,
The green earth and the sea;
So love is with the lover's heart,
Wherever he may be.

Wherever he may be, the stars
Must daily lose their light;
The moon will veil her in the shade;
The sun will set at night.

The sun may set, but constant love
Will shine when he's away;
So that dull night is never night,
And day is brighter day.

From The Lake of a Thousand Isles

I would seek no wealth, at the cost of health,
'Mid the city's din and strife;
More I love the grace of fair nature's face,
And the calm of a woodland life;
I would shun the road by ambition trod,
And the lore which the heart defiles;
Then hurrah for the land of the forests grand,
And the Lake of the Thousand Isles!

O away, away! I would gladly stray
Where the freedom I love is found;
Where the pine and oak by the woodman's stroke
Are disturbed in their ancient bound;
Where the gladsome swain reaps the golden grain,
And the trout from the stream beguiles;
Then hurrah for the land of the forests grand,
And the Lake of the Thousand Isles.

Major-General's Song
From The Pirates of Penzance

There are worse things than having behaved foolishly in public.
There are worse things than these miniature betrayals,
committed or endured or suspected; there are worse things
than not being able to sleep for thinking about them.
It is 5.a.m. All the worse things come stalking in
and stand icily about the bed looking worse and worse
and worse

Fleur Adcock (1934 -
© Fleur Adcock Poems 1960-2000
Bloodaxe Books 2000

Visit

Had I known you were there
I would have knocked softly
or slipped off my shoes.

I watch your wings open and close
like hands
uncertain of prayer,

your plumed antennae
write manuscripts
around the whitewashed walls.

Then alter them.
Then alter them again
as you explore the realm of my laptop

finding it to be part of a table
and the table part of a floor, a room,
a whole city, a planet. A single point.

O mighty little thing I cannot name,
the Moon must have spooned you in
between the tides of my curtains.

Pat Borthwick (1945-
© Wave
Templar Poetry 2007

Believe

It's happening, the odd crocus
edges out between rocks and trees,
blue tongues licking crisp sunshine
at the feet of near-stripped trees;
telling us it's becoming warmer and lighter,
forcing us to believe that there's life after hard-bitten hail,
snow and frost that sprayed our breath
in those black mornings.

Tom Kelly (1947 -
© The Wrong Jarrow
Smokestack Books 2007