Of all the fair months, that round the sun <br />In light-link'd dance their circles run, <br />Sweet May, shine thou for me; <br />For still, when thy earliest beams arise, <br />That youth, who beneath the blue lake lies, <br />Sweet May, returns to me. <br /> <br />Of all the bright haunts, where daylight leaves <br />Its lingering smile on golden eves, <br />Fair lake, thou'rt dearest to me; <br />For when the last April sun grows dim <br />Thy Naiads prepare his steed for him <br />Who dwells, bright lake, in thee. <br /> <br />Of all the proud steeds that ever bore <br />Young plumed Chiefs on sea or shore, <br />White Steed, most joy to thee; <br />Who still, with the first young glance of spring, <br />From under that glorious lake dost bring <br />My love, my chief, to me. <br /> <br />While, white as the sail some bark unfurls, <br />When newly launch'd, thy long mane curls, <br />Fair Steed, as white and free; <br />And spirits, from all the lake's deep bowers, <br />Glide o'er the blue wave scattering flowers, <br />Around my love and thee. <br /> <br />Of all the sweet deaths that maidens die, <br />Whose lovers beneath the cold wave lie, <br />Most sweet that death will be, <br />Which, under the next May evening's light, <br />When thou and thy steed are lost to sight, <br />Dear love, I'll die for thee.<br /><br />Thomas Moore<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/o-donohue-s-mistress/
