There are, for those who seek retreat
From the hard-pressing demons of the city street,
From the insistent clamour of the herd,
Still to be found huched regions where no word
Breaks in upon the heart
With tidings of calamity, where art
Betrays no artifice or laboured scheme,
And life has all the rapture of a dream.
Here is this island where, from shackles freed,
The slaves of industry for a brief while can feed
On plenitude of healing grace,
In many a quiet place.
In Crogga Glen, beneath the massed trees’ shade,
No vulgar banners are displayed,
No traffic save the rabbits at their play,
No squadrons but the birds, and no affray
Save battling beetles and the skirmishes
Of ants, no fleets but gliding fishes
In the clear dappled rivulet.
Yet so near (so some believe) as in Hell’s inlet
To the pearled gates of Paradise
There lie a glen and beach where raucous cries
The wilder extroverts on holiday.
But such is the calm power within the wood
That all man’s foolishness is understood,
And in the generous favour of wide Heaven
Condemned not, but forgiven !
Mona’s Herald 24.4.62