Moriturus Te Salutat Poem by Joseph Mary Plunkett

These words that may not reach your heart
Are wrung from mine in bitter pain,
You, reading, but despise their art
That is not art but blood—in vain
The blood is ebbing from my heart.

The passions of my tortured mind
Trouble but lightly your calm soul—
No ugliness besets the blind—
A shadow on darkness is the whole
Of my misfortune in your mind.

And yet I love you that you say
You will not love me—truth is hard,
’Twere so much easier to give way
And stay the death-stroke, my reward—
Courage, brave heart! ’tis Love you slay.