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 dawnA 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 birthTo valour thick as blooms of heather.Romantic Ireland never dies!O'Leary lies in fertile ground,And songs and spears throughout the yearsRise up where patriot graves are found.Immortal patriots newly deadAnd 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 smileFor many a mile where troops convene.O'Connell Street is loudly sweetWith strains of Wearing of the Green.The soil of Ireland throbs and glowsWith life that knows the hour is hereTo strike again like IrishmenFor that which Irishmen hold dear.Lord Edward leaves his resting placeAnd Sarsfield's face is glad and fierce.See Emmet leap from troubled sleepTo grasp the hand of Padraic Pearse!There is no rope can strangle songAnd not for long death takes his toll.No prison bars can dim the starsNor 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.
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