Today we celebrate the feast of St. Brigid of Kildare (she has many names and has been claimed by both christian and pagan groups), and the first day of spring.
A traditional craft is still utilised to make the Brigid's Cross from rushes, it is hung in the home to keep the house fire free for the year.
This morning in true celebratory fashion, with a clear blue sky and bright sunshine Leiny and I fed the chickens (Brigid is the patron saint of babies; blacksmiths; boatmen; cattle; chicken farmers; children whose parents are not married; dairymaids; dairy workers; fugitives; infants; Ireland; Kildare; Leinster; mariners; midwives; milk maids; newborn babies; nuns; poets; poultry farmers; poultry raisers; printing presses; sailors; scholars; travellers; watermen)and collected the eggs.
I whisked up the eggs to make an omelette 'a la margie' for breakfast,
with fresh basil and mozzarella chesse topping.
Leiny then set about baking something nice for afternoon tea
A dozen carrot cake buns
By lunch the snow clouds were on the horizon and we are already planning tomorrow Candlemas day, the feast of light.
'MlD dewy pastures girdled with blue air,
Where ruddy kine the limpid waters drink,
Through violet-purpled woods of green Kildare,
'Neath rainbow skies, by tinkling rivulet's brink,
O Brigid, young, thy tender, snow-white feet
In days of old on breezy morns and eves
Wandered through labyrinths of sun and shade,
Thy face so innocent-sweet
Shining with love that neither joys nor grieves
Save as the angels, meek and holy maid !
With white fire in thy hand that burned no man,
But cleansed and warmed where'er its ray might call,
Nor ever wasted low, or needed fan,
Thou walk'dst at eve among the oak-trees tall.
There thou didst chant thy vespers, while each star
Grew brighter listening through the leafy screen.
Then ceased the song-bird all his love-notes soft,
His music near or far,
Hushing his passion 'mid the sombre green
To let thy peaceful whispers float aloft.
And still from heavenly choirs thou steal'st by night
To tell sweet Aves in the woods unseen,
To tend the shrine-lamps with thy flambeau white
And set thy tender footprints in the green.
Thus sing our birds with holy note and pure,
As though the loves of angels were their theme;
Thus burn to throbbing flame our sacred fires
With heats that still endure ;
Thence hath our daffodil its golden gleam,
From thy dear mindfulness that never tires !
LADY GILBERT (ROSA MULHOLLAND)
A Popular and gifted Irish poetess and novelist of the day, born in Belfast. She published one volume of delicate verse (vagrant Verses, 1886); all her other writings, which are numerous, being stories. In 1891 she married Mr. (afterwards Sir J. T.) Gilbert, the noted Irish archaeologist.
A sincere Thank You to Vale at Les Cotrions for the Award she passed to me last week. I will consider who I will pass it to this week and put it on my next post.
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