Easter Week
(In memory of Joseph Mary Plunkett)
(“Romantic Ireland’s dead and gone,
It’s with O’Leary in the grave.

William Butler Yeats.)
“Romantic Ireland’s dead and gone,
   It’s with O’Leary in the grave.”
Then, Yeats, what gave that Easter dawn
   A hue so radiantly brave?
There was a rain of blood that day,
   Red rain in gay blue April weather.
It blessed the earth till it gave birth
   To valour thick as blooms of heather.
Romantic Ireland never dies!
   O’Leary lies in fertile ground,
And songs and spears throughout the years
   Rise up where patriot graves are found.
Immortal patriots newly dead
   And ye that bled in bygone years,
What banners rise before your eyes?
   What is the tune that greets your ears?
The young Republic’s banners smile
   For many a mile where troops convene.
O’Connell Street is loudly sweet
   With strains of Wearing of the Green.
The soil of Ireland throbs and glows
   With life that knows the hour is here
To strike again like Irishmen
   For that which Irishmen hold dear.
Lord Edward leaves his resting place
   And Sarsfield’s face is glad and fierce.
See Emmet leap from troubled sleep
   To grasp the hand of Padraic Pearse!
There is no rope can strangle song
   And not for long death takes his toll.
No prison bars can dim the stars
   Nor quicklime eat the living soul.
Romantic Ireland is not old.
   For years untold her youth will shine.
Her heart is fed on Heavenly bread,
   The blood of martyrs is her wine.

Webpage © 2001 ELC
Lane Core Jr. (lane@elcore.net)
Created April 1, 2001; not revised.