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Boating - An Evening on Lough Neagh
When the zephyr's faintly blowing, And the
shadows long are growing,
What a pleasure to be rowing, on the silent limped bosom of the
bay!
While the sun is gently dipping, And the silvery drops are
dripping,
From the oars as one goes slipping, round the coast of
Massereene at close of Day.
When the land around lies dreaming, With the
peaceful foliage gleaming,
In the slanting rays a-beaming, From the hatch of sky containing
Phoebus' throne;
Then the forward strokes impelling, Urge the boat through
wavelets swelling,
Either side with waters welling, While the foaming wake
outstretches clearly shown.
And anon the oars uplifting, Then the boat
goes idly drifting,
O'er the quiet waters shifting, With a motion slow and steady,
unperceived;
While the very slightest cleaving, Of the surface gives a
heaving,
That's a lullaby, while leaving, Shoreward objects rearward with
advance achieved.
Then the eye around goes viewing, Work the
fishermen are doing,
In their tasks engrossed while wooing, Scanty catch of pollen to
repay their toll.
And the far-off dim horizon, Seems to hold a sail that lies on,
Just a rim that one descries on, Focussing the watery marge with
sky as foil.
Gnats in motion gaily reeling; Round our heads
are swallows wheeling,
Circling heavenwards, lakewards keeling, Through the air with
curves of geometric flight
And a distant seagull crying, Flashes white-spread wings while
flying,
In the sickly sunlight dying, On the verdant tree tops - object
of delight.
And the beauty, linked with feeling, Right
into the soul goes stealing,
Soothing, resting it, and healing, Scars of wounds in Life's
rude warfare of the past.
So that when the boat comes gliding, To its moorings; from the
siding,
Through the dusk, contented, striding, Homewards, wearily, we go
to rest at last.
Antrim W.J.C. |
