Irish Ivy

Ivy of Ireland in my garden grows 
Beside the foxglove that the wild bee knows, 
More dear to me than lavender or rose. 

Gray moths about it flit, and gold wasps hum: 
The bees salute it softly as they come: 
The east wind loiters by it, and is dumb — 

Or whispers very lightly of green rings, 
And hollow raths, and fairy-peopled springs, 
And buried days when Boholaun had wings: 

And rode amid the unforgotten Shee. 
Or the west wind comes, laughing, from the sea, 
And tells the youngest leaves of days to be, 

When Eri's grievous wound is healed, and she 
Shall lift her gracious head, and, smiling, see 
Her children coming crowned about her knee. 

Ivy of Ireland, is the promise clear? 
You climb towards the light 'twixt hope and fear. 
But would to God the day we wait were here!