An Irish Garden
The transparent rains in the temples of your eyes,
Where strophic modes of strains uprise,
Course through my heart, as we walk hand in hand,
Upon a holly-green path in Ireland.
We spoke of Yeats at the roadside bar,
Where he sat and watched the sun descend,
Having beautifully penned
The eloquent scenery, near and far.
A castle of old sits upon a hill,
Above us as we rove in the garden's still.
There are verses to written yet,
Of your fresh, white face,
Scented with mignonette,
Commanding all my love in this shaded place.
(Taken From Sonnets Of Dusk And Dawn)
The transparent rains in the temples of your eyes,
Where strophic modes of strains uprise,
Course through my heart, as we walk hand in hand,
Upon a holly-green path in Ireland.
We spoke of Yeats at the roadside bar,
Where he sat and watched the sun descend,
Having beautifully penned
The eloquent scenery, near and far.
A castle of old sits upon a hill,
Above us as we rove in the garden's still.
There are verses to written yet,
Of your fresh, white face,
Scented with mignonette,
Commanding all my love in this shaded place.
(Taken From Sonnets Of Dusk And Dawn)
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