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 | The Collected Poems of T. W. H. Crosland |  |
138
The Dublin Rising
I
Our right—and your old wrongs.
With men's and angels' tongues
We did discourse. Alas—
The tinkling cymbal and the sounding brass!
With men's and angels' tongues
We did discourse. Alas—
The tinkling cymbal and the sounding brass!
We “ruled.” You mourned and planned.
We had gifts to understand
All knowledge, all dreams, all star-sad mystery;
Mountains we moved, while you made prophecy.
We had gifts to understand
All knowledge, all dreams, all star-sad mystery;
Mountains we moved, while you made prophecy.
We doubted not. Your Eyes
Were set on Paradise.
Yet always, and most grievously,
Both of us missed the “greatest” of “these three.”
Were set on Paradise.
Yet always, and most grievously,
Both of us missed the “greatest” of “these three.”
139
II
Your fair dead—our fair dead.
Now, by each fallen head
And each rebuking wraith,
Swear we another Faith.
Now, by each fallen head
And each rebuking wraith,
Swear we another Faith.
Your night of tears—our night.
But, by the unquenchable Light
Toward which, blindly, we grope,
Behold, another Hope!
But, by the unquenchable Light
Toward which, blindly, we grope,
Behold, another Hope!
Our agony—and yours.
Yea, by the Passionate Hours
And the Exceeding Bitter Cry,
Do we still lack . . . the Charity!
Yea, by the Passionate Hours
And the Exceeding Bitter Cry,
Do we still lack . . . the Charity!
| The Collected Poems of T. W. H. Crosland | |