Thomas MacDonagh

* * *

Isn't it pleasant for the little birds
    That rise up above,
And be nestling together
    On the one branch, in love?
Not so with myself
    And the darling of my heart--
Every day rises upon us
    Far, far apart.

She is whiter than the lily,
    Than beauty more fine.
She is sweeter than the violin,
    More radiant than sunshine.
But her grace and nobleness
    Are beyond all that again--
And O God Who art in Heaven,
    Free me from pain!

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