A Rose Will Fade

You were always a dreamer, Rose - red Rose,
As you swung on your perfumed spray,
Swinging, and all the world was true,
Swaying, what did it trouble you?
A rose will fade in a day.

Why did you smile to his face, red Rose,
As he whistled across your way?
And all the world went mad for you,
All the world it knelt to woo.
A rose will bloom in a day.

I gather your petals, Rose - red Rose,
The petals he threw away.
And all the world derided you;
Ah! the world, how well it knew
A rose will fade in a day!

poem by Dora Sigerson Shorter
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Little White Rose

Little white rose that I loved, I loved,
Roisin ban, Roisin ban!
Fair my bud as the morning's dawn.
I kissed my beautiful flower to bloom,
My heart grew glad for its rich perfume—
Little white rose that I loved!
Little white rose that I loved grew red,
Roisin rua, Roisin rua!
Passionate tears I wept for you.
Love is more sweet than the world's fame—
I dream you back in my heart the same,
Little white rose that I loved!
Little white rose that I loved grew black,
Roisin duv, Roisin duv!
So I knew not the heart of you.
Lost in the world's alluring fire,
I cry in the night for my heart's desire,
Little white rose that I loved!

poem by Dora Sigerson Shorter
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In Wintry Weather

Dear, in wintry weather,
How close we crept together!
The storms, with all their thunder,
Could not our fond hands sunder.
No sorrow followed after
Cold words or scornful laughter.
How close we crept together,
Through all the wintry weather!

Dear, when each rose uncurled
To its sweet narrow world,
You went to cull its glory;
You would not hear my story,
Too sweet the birds were singing,
Too fair the buds were swinging.
If I should come or go
You did not care to know.

When each sweet rose uncurled
To its unknown world,

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poem by Dora Sigerson Shorter
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A Wayward Rose

Mischievous rose from the rose-tree swaying,
Can I not bind thee nor hold thee?
Can I not weave thee nor fold thee
In with thy sisters to staying?
Vain is my passion or praying,
Rose from the rose-tree swaying.
Wayward sweet rose from the rose-tree swinging,
Can I not pass thee, forget thee?
Can I not see to regret thee?
In—'mid thy kindred's close ringing,
Out—to my heart she comes winging,
Rose from the rose-tree swinging.
Cruel red rose from the rose-tree swaying,
Ever to worship thee, throne thee,
Never to lose thee or own thee,
Thy beauty to keep me from straying,
Thy thorns for my passionate praying,
Rose from the rose-tree swaying.

poem by Dora Sigerson Shorter
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The Red Rose

The little red rose tapped at my window—
Tapped at my window long years ago;
Glad would I run then, trip to the shadow,
Who was in hiding well did I know.
Last night I, nodding, heard at the casement
Soft knock-a-knocking come on the pane.
'Hush! 'Tis the lost rose taps at my window—
Red rose, oh, sweet rose, come back again!'
Listless I moved then, laughed at my fancies—
Wept at my fancies of years ago.
Slow went a-seeking who was in hiding,
Who came a-tapping—how should I know?
Pushed wide the window, leaned to the silence—
'Red rose, oh, sweet rose, come back again!'
'Twas but a dead branch, broken and brown branch,
Soft knock-a-knocking there on the pane.

poem by Dora Sigerson Shorter
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To Donneen

When first you came to London Town, Donneen,
Just five years old,
I said—'He'll ask for marble halls, and streets
All paved with gold!'
I thought—'He'll weep, so stricken with amaze,
To hear the roar
Of trampling hoofs, of rushing feet that go
Our way before.'
I said—'He'll fear the throbbing engine's shriek,
The shaking path,
The pushing crowd, the city's comrade cries
Of joy, of wrath.'
And when we stood to hear the mighty heart
Of London Town,
I saw your angry cheek and knew a tear
Had threatened down.

'Why weep,' I whispered by your red gold head,
'Dearest of boys?'
'I cannot hear my new shoes creak,' you said,

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poem by Dora Sigerson Shorter
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The Little Brother

O brother, brother, come down to the crags by the bay,
Come down to the caves where I play;
For oh! I saw on the rocks, asleep,
A fair mermaid, and the slow waves creep
To bear her away, away.
O brother, brother, come quick, till you laugh with me,
For no mermaid so fair is she,
But the little lass that I saw last night,
(I hid in the shade, you stood in the light),
And she weeping most bitterly.
O brother, brother, I watched her the live-long day,
Saw her hair grow jewelled with spray;
Once her cheek was brushed by a gull's wet wing,
And a finch flew down on her hand to sing,
And was not afraid to stay.
O brother, brother, will she soon awakened be?
I would she might laugh now with me.
She sleeps, and the world so full of sound—
She's so deaf, like the dead that are under the ground,
That I laugh and laugh to see.

poem by Dora Sigerson Shorter
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The Fairy Changeling

Brian O'Byrne of Omah town
In his garden strode up and down;
He pulled his beard, and he beat his breast;
And this is his trouble and woe confessed
'The good-folk came in the night, and they
Have stolen my bonny wean away;
Have put in his place a changeling,
A weashy, weakly, wizen thing!
'From the speckled hen nine eggs I stole,
And lighting a fire of a glowing coal,
I fried the shells, and I spilt the yolk;
But never a word the stranger spoke.
'A bar of metal I heated red
To frighten the fairy from its bed,
To put in the place of this fretting wean
My own bright beautiful boy again.
'But my wife had hidden it in her arms,
And cried ‘For shame!’ on my fairy charms;
She sobs, with the strange child on her breast
‘I love the weak, wee babe the best!’'

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poem by Dora Sigerson Shorter
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The Dead Soldier

Where the sword has opened the way the man will follow

'Look! they came, the triumphant army!
Over yon hill see their weapons peeping!'
Still I spoke not but my wheel sent turning,
I closed my eyes for my heart was weeping,
My heart was weeping for a dead soldier.
Who is he who looks towards me?
''Tis no man but a gay flag flying.'
Red was his mouth and his white brow thoughtful,
Blue his eyes—how my soul is crying,
My soul is crying for a dead soldier.
'Kneel ye down, lest your eyes should dare them,
Kneel ye down and your beads be saying.'
'Lord, on their heads Thy wrath deliver,'
This is the prayer that my lips are praying,
My heart is praying for a dead soldier.

'Best cheer the path of the men victorious,
For he is dead and his blade lies broken,

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poem by Dora Sigerson Shorter
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The Piper On The Hills

A CHILD'S SONG
There sits a piper on the hill
Who pipes the livelong day,
And when he pipes both loud and shrill,
The frightened people say
‘The wind, the wind is blowing up,
'Tis rising to a gale.’
The women hurry to the shore
To watch some distant sail.
The wind, the wind, the wind, the wind,
Is blowing to a gale.
But when he pipes all sweet and low,
The piper on the hill,
I hear the merry women go
With laughter, loud and shrill
‘The wind, the wind is coming south,
'Twill blow a gentle day.’
They gather on the meadow-land,
To toss the yellow hay.
The wind, the wind, the wind, the wind,

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poem by Dora Sigerson Shorter
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