A splendid place is London, with golden store, <br />For them that have the heart and hope and youth galore; <br />But mournful are its streets to me, I tell you true, <br />For I'm longing sore for Ireland in the foggy dew. <br /> <br />The sun he shines all day here, so fierce and fine, <br />With never a wisp of mist at all to dim his shine; <br />The sun he shines all day here from skies of blue: <br />He hides his face in Ireland in the foggy dew. <br /> <br />The maids go out to milking in the pastures gray, <br />The sky is green and golden at dawn of the day; <br />And in the deep-drenched meadows the hay lies new, <br />And the corn is turning yellow in the foggy dew. <br /> <br />Mavrone ! if I might feel now the dew on my face, <br />And the wind from the mountains in that remembered place, <br />I'd give the wealth of London, if mine it were to do, <br />And I'd travel home to Ireland and the foggy dew.<br /><br />Katharine Tynan<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-foggy-dew/
