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Posts Tagged ‘pity’

I

The first rose on my rose-tree
Budded, bloomed, and shattered,
During sad days when to me
Nothing mattered.

Grief of grief has drained me clean;
Still it seems a pity
No one saw, – it must have been
Very pretty.

II

Let the little birds sing;
Let the little lambs play;
Spring is here; and so ’tis spring; –
But not in the old way!

I recall a place
Where a plum-tree grew;
There you lifted up your face,
And blossoms covered you.

If the little birds sing,
And the little lambs play,
Spring is here; and so ’tis spring  –
But not in the old way!

III

All the dog-wood blossoms are underneath the tree!
Ere spring was going – ah, spring is gone!
And there comes no summer to the like of you and me, –
Blossom time is early, but no fruit sets on.

All the dog-wood blossoms are underneath the tree,
Browned at the edges, turned in a day;
And I would with all my heart they trimmed a mound for me,
And weeds were tall on all the paths that led that way!

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Come round me, little childer;
There, don’t fling stones at me
Because I mutter as I go;
But pity Moll Magee. 

My man was a poor fisher
With shore lines in the say;
My work was saltin’ herrings
The whole of the long day. 

And sometimes from the saltin’ shed
I scarce could drag my feet,
Under the blessed moonlight,
Along the pebbly street.

I’d always been but weakly,
And my baby was just born;
A neighbour minded her by day,
I minded her till morn. 

I lay upon my baby;
Ye little childer dear,
I looked on my cold baby
When the morn grew frosty and clear. 

A weary woman sleeps so hard!
My man grew red and pale,
And gave me money, and bade me go
To my own place, Kinsale. 

He drove me out and shut the door,
And gave his curse to me;
I went away in silence,
No neighbour could I see. 

The windows and the doors were shut,
One star shone faint and green,
The little straws were turnin’ round
Across the bare boreen. 

I went away in silence:
Beyond old Martin’s byre
I saw a kindly neighbour
Blowin’ her mornin’ fire. 

She drew from me my story –
My money’s all used up,
And still, with pityin’, scornin’ eye,
She gives me bite and sup. 

She says my man will surely come,
And fetch me home agin;
But always, as I’m movin’ round,
Without doors or within. 

Pilin’ the wood or pilin’ the turf,
Or goin’ to the well,
I’m thinkin’ of my baby
And keenin’ to mysel’. 

And sometimes I am sure she knows
When, openin’ wide His door,
God lights the stars, His candles,
And looks upon the poor. 

So now, ye little childer,
Ye won’t fling stones at me;
But gather with your shinin’ looks
And pity Moll Magee.

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Vice 

Vice is a monster of so frightful mien,
As to be hated, needs but to be seen;
Yet seen too oft, familiar with her face,
We first endure, then pity, then embrace.

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photo by Crystal Woronuik at http://www.rgbstock.com/photo/nxwVPLA/Halloween+Pumpkin
Copyright ©2013 Crystal Woroniuk

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