Poems by Clinton Scollard

There's necromancy still!
The rathe marsh-marigold
An Ophir makes of yonder oozy mold;
Slim b...

Into the dusk and snow
One fared on yesterday;
No man of us may know
By what mysterious way. ...

They crowned Tyrconnell
On the rock of Doon;
"Hail! Hail!" they said,
To that anointed head,...

June's blossom-garden
Hath the red rose for warden, --
Sweet Love's inquisitor.
"Ere ye may en...

Where the wild sea-mew flocks and flees,
And neither winds nor skies beguile,
Foam-set amid t...

Landward the breakers roll and run,
The gray-white ospreys near and flee,
Beneath the long sl...

Dearer than the wisdom of the ages
Is the lore wherein I would be seer;
O ye flowers, unfold ...

North and south and east and west
I have roamed a weary while,
But have found no restful bourn...

Reluctantly the summer goes;
The crimson radiance of the rose
Is ashen in the garden-close. &n...

At Killybegs above the crags
The gray gulls pipe with voices thinned,
And all the green trees ...

In the warm hush of the autumnal night
I list one lonely cricket sound its clear
Persistent mus...

It was Sir Frederick Hamilton's men
Were hungry for the fray,
And it was a son of the bog and ...

Brave was Bernard of Ventadorn
As any knight in Christendie;
Albeit he was lowly born,
No fe...

I read in the untroubled Book of Dream
Of beatific things,
Lovely imaginings,
The splendid p...

O'er violet-dotted height and king-cup hollow
The Spirit calls me, and I fain would follow.
Ol...