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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=536719" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Abbey Assaroe</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Gray, gray is Abbey Assaroe, by Belashanny town, <br>It has neither door nor window, the walls are broken down; <br>The carven-stones lie scatter'd in briar and nettle-bed!<br>The only feet are those that come at burial of the dead. <br>A little rocky rivulet runs murmuring to the tide, <br>Singing a song of ancient days, in sorrow, not in pride; <br>The boortree and the lightsome ash across the portal grow, <br>And heaven itself is now the roof of Abbey Assaroe. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">It looks beyond the harbour-stream to Gulban mountain blue; <br>It hears the voice of Erna's fall - Atlantic breakers too; <br>High ships go sailing past it; the sturdy clank of oars <br>Brings in the salmon-boat to haul a net upon the shores; <br>And this way to his home-creek, when the summer day is done, <br>Slow sculls the weary fisherman across the setting sun; <br>While green with corn is Sheegus Hill, his cottage white below; <br>But gray at every season is Abbey Assaroe. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">There stood one day a poor old man above its broken bridge; <br>He heard no running rivulet, he saw no mountain-ridge; <br>He turn'd his back on Sheegus Hill, and view'd with misty sight <br>The Abbey walls, the burial-ground with crosses ghostly white; <br>Under a weary weight of years he bow'd upon his staff, <br>Perusing in the present time the former's epitaph; <br>For, gray and wasted like the walls, a figure full of woe, <br>This man was of the blood of them who founded Assaroe. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">From Derry to Bundrowas Tower, Tirconnell broad was theirs; <br>Spearmen and plunder, bards and wine, and holy Abbot's prayers; <br>With chanting always in the house which they had builded high <br>To God and to Saint Bernard - where at last they came to die. <br>At worst, no workhouse grave for him! the ruins of his race <br>Shall rest among the ruin'd stones of this their saintly place. <br>The fond old man was weeping; and tremulous and slow <br>Along the rough and crooked lane he crept from Assaroe.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=William+Allingham">William Allingham</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=536719" data-title="Abbey Assaroe de William Allingham" data-description="Gray, gray is Abbey Assaroe, by Belashanny town, 
It has neither door nor window, the walls are broken down; 
The carven-stones lie scatter'd in briar and nettle-bed!
The only feet are those that come at burial of the dead. 
A little rocky rivulet..."></div>
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