KILDEA’S FLOWER FARM.

I live where the shade is, And rusted Life’s blade is— The sand-drifts from Hades Have tarnished each charm: But, sober or shicker, My heart-pulse beats quicker Whenever I think of Kildea’s flower farm! ’Twas not the green sward, or The spangled disorder Along the path border That led to their gate; Nor mazes and mazes Of heartsease and daisies, That blossomed so early And lingered so late: It was not the ringing Of crimson bells swinging— It was not the singing Of elves in the corn— Nor fairy beds, laden With rose-wreaths from Aidenn, That smiled like a child, in The face of the morn! Ah, the roses so bloomy That held me and drew me— The thrill that shot through me, ’Neath blue skies or grey— The fear that oppressed me, The hope that caressed me, All dwelt ’neath the bonnet Of Katy Kildea! With callous years flying, And Youth’s fountains drying, One memory undying Lives always attuned: And, if plucked from its setting, Forgot and forgetting, The best of my being Would flow through the wound! I live where the shade is— And rusted Life’s blade is— The sand-drifts from Hades Have tarnished its charm: But, sober or shicker, My heart-pulse beats quicker Whenever I think of Kildea’s flower farm.