Here, where the breath of the scented-gorse floats through the <br />sun-stained air, <br />On a steep hill-side, on a grassy ledge, I have lain hours long <br />and heard <br />Only the faint breeze pass in a whisper like a prayer, <br />And the river ripple by and the distant call of a bird. <br /> <br />On the lone hill-side, in the gold sunshine, I will hush me and <br />repose, <br />And the world fades into a dream and a spell is cast on me; <br />_And what was all the strife about, for the myrtle or the rose, <br />And why have I wept for a white girl's paleness passing ivory!_ <br /> <br />Out of the tumult of angry tongues, in a land alone, apart, <br />In a perfumed dream-land set betwixt the bounds of life and death, <br />Here will I lie while the clouds fly by and delve an hole where my <br />heart <br />May sleep deep down with the gorse above and red, red earth beneath. <br /> <br />Sleep and be quiet for an afternoon, till the rose-white angelus <br />Softly steals my way from the village under the hill: <br />_Mother of God, O Misericord, look down in pity on us, <br />The weak and blind who stand in our light and wreak ourselves such ill_.<br /><br />Ernest Christopher Dowson<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/breton-afternoon/
