Kathleen

Kathleen

On meadow bright by love and light,
all angels praise their queen;
in grove so fair with candied air
there sleeps my sweet Kathleen.
Her dreams enfold a man of gold,
a prince, but not a king.
Her auburn hair and beauty rare
shall bring her everything.

In bower soft with lilac bloom,
the swallows prance and preen;
and serve with song a goddess there,
my grace who is Kathleen.
Her heart is pure and slow to sin,
her eyes as clear as star and moon.
Her gaze revives the blossom's fade
that wavers once to sway, to swoon.

The sky was clear, and dew so dear,
with comfort warm between.
I spied her there, a girl so fair;
one I adore, Kathleen.
Her form revealed such loveliness,
so peaceful in her dreams.
I suffered then in loneliness,
or what it often seems.

A songbird settled on my hand,
its eye both kind and keen;
and spoke the words I loathed to hear,
"You'll never have Kathleen."
I stole away in splendid pain,
my soul rich as a king,
for love is ripe upon the vine,
to bring me everything.