To men now of her blood and race
England's a little garden place,
Dear as a woman is, and she
The Queen of every loyalty.
...
They lifted up his weary head,
Stained with a dark and bitter dew:
'How does the battle go?' he said.
...
Voice of a great wind, of wild ocean surges,
Storming the gates of Heaven,
The people of God singing under the scourges
...
One called from Salonika and his call
Rang to his brother;
Forded wide rivers, climbed the mountain wall,
Seeking the other.
...
WEAVE me no wreath of orange blossom,
No bridal white shall me adorn;
I wear a red rose in my bosom;
To-morrow I shall wear the thorn.
...
The Convent garden lies so near
The road the people go,
If it was quiet you might hear
The nuns' talk, merry and low.
...
She had twelve stars for diadem;
She had for footstool the full moon;
Her quiet eyes, outshining them,
Kept memories of the night and noon
...
NOW strikes the hour upon the clock
The black sheep may rebuild the years
May lift the father's pride he broke
And wipe away his mother's tears.
...
Who said the Spring was dead?
She would not come again,
Dust on her starry head,
...
O, the red rose may be fair,
And the lily statelier;
But my shamrock, one in three,
Takes the very heart of me!
...