Classic Poem

‘Norah, little Norah; whither art thou hieing?’
Keep the sad voices of the winds calling eerily.
‘Aha; for the water, for the blue shining water’—
Rings out the answer from her glad heart cheerily.

Still snatching wildly at her curly brown locks streaming—
‘Linger on the heath awhile and revel with us merrily.’
‘Hie; for the lilies, for the white floating lilies’—
Leaping from the clinging of their light hands airily.

‘Tarry, little maiden, the waxen cups come drifting’—
Dragging in terror at her light flowing drapery.
‘Oh, they are for Mary; and the dawn-star is fading;
Morn is breaking o'er the hills, pallid and vapoury.’

‘Tarry, little Norah; thou wilt drown unless thou tarry;
We will blow the flowers, so thou mayst grasp them easily.’
‘They must be on the altar, at Mary's feet, ere sunrise’—
Stretching o'er the margin of the lake curling breezily.

Rest thee, little maiden, thou art drifting mid the lilies,
Down among the lilies with thy dead eyes closed dreamily,
Clasping to thy bosom all the snowy waxen blossoms,
While upon thy pallid face the sun shines beamily.

‘Norah, little Norah; it is sunrise on the mountains’—
Wail the sad voices of the winds calling drearily:
‘Mary wears the lilies in her diadem in heaven’—
Weird echo answers, through the mist falling eerily.