Poetry Archives

I’ll keep a little tavern
  Below the high hill’s crest,
Wherein all grey-eyed people
  May set them down and rest.

There shall be plates a-plenty,
  And mugs to melt the chill
Of all the grey-eyed people
  Who happen up the hill.

There sound will sleep the traveller,
  And dream his journey’s end,
But I will rouse at midnight
  The falling fire to tend.

Aye, ’tis a curious fancy—
  But all the good I know
Was taught me out of two grey eyes
  A long time ago.