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Far hence, amid an isle of wondrous beauty, Crouching over a grave, an ancient, sorrowful mother, Once a queen now lean and tatter'd, seated on the ground, Her old white hair drooping dishevel'd round her shoulders; Long silent she too long silent mourning her shrouded hope and heir; Of all the earth her heart most full of sorrow, because most full of love.
Yet a word, ancient mother; You need crouch there no longer on the cold ground, with forehead between your knees; O you need not sit there, veil'd in your old white hair, so dishevel'd; For know you, the one you mourn is not in that grave; It was an illusion the heir, the son you love, was not really dead; The Lord is not dead he is risen, young and strong, in another country; Even while you wept there by your fallen harp, by the grave, What you wept for, was translated, pass'd from the grave, The winds favoured and the sea sail'd it, And now with rosy and new blood, Moves to-day in a new country.
"Yet a word, ancient mother, You need crouch there no longer on the cold ground with forehead between your knees, Oh, you need not sit there veil'd in your old white hair so dishevel'd, For know you the one you mourn is not in that grave, It was an illusion; the son you loved was not really dead, The Lord is not dead, he is risen again young and strong in another country.
He made directly for the shore, and the crowd there gather'd started back in wonderment as they beheld his dishevel'd appearance and ghastly face. Throwing himself violently from his saddle, he flung the bridle over the animal's neck, and gave him a sharp cut with a small riding whip. He made for the boat; one minute later, and he had been left.
Or take his poem called "Old Ireland:" "Far hence amid an isle of wondrous beauty, Crouching over a grave an ancient sorrowful mother, Once a queen, now lean and tatter'd, seated on the ground, Her old white hair drooping, dishevel'd, round her shoulders, At her feet fallen an unused royal harp, Long silent, she, too, long silent, mourning her shrouded hope and heir, Of all the earth her heart most full of sorrow because most full of love.
Time was, when matrons went bare-foot with dishevel'd hair, pure minds, and pray'd him to send rain, and forthwith it rained pitcher-fulls, or then or never, and every one was pleased: Now the gods are no better than mice; as they tread, their feet are wrapt in wooll; and because ye are not superstitious your lands yield nothing."
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