HERE, where the breath of the scented gorse floats through the
On a steep hill-side, on a grassy ledge, I have lain hours
long, and heard
Only the faint breeze pass in a whisper like a prayer,
And the river ripple by, and the distant call of a bird.
On the lone hill-side, in the gold sunshine, I will hush me and repose :
And the world fades into a dream, and a spell is cast on me ;
And what was all the strife about for the myrtle or the rose ?
And why have I wept for a white girl’s paleness, passing ivory ?
Out of the tumult of angry tongues, in a world alone, apart,
In a perfumed dream-land set betwixt the bounds of life and death :
Here will I lie, while the clouds fly by, and delve a hole, where mine heart
May sleep dark down with the gorse above and red, red earth beneath :
Sleep and be quiet for an afternoon, till the rose-white Angelus
Softly steals my way from the village under the hill :
“Mother of God ! O, Misericord ! look down in pity on us,
The weak and blind, who stand in our light, and wreak ourselves such ill!”
Dowson, Ernest. “Breton Afternoon.” The Savoy vol. 3, July 1896, p. 40. Savoy Digital Edition, edited by Christopher Keep and Lorraine Janzen Kooistra, 2018-2020. Yellow Nineties 2.0,Ryerson University Centre for Digital Humanities, 2019. https://1890s.ca/savoyv3-dowson-breton/