Joseph Mary Plunkett

[Seosamh Máire Pluincéid] (21 November 1887 – 4 May 1916 / Dublin / Ireland)

Joseph Mary Plunkett Poems

1. La Pucelle 5/25/2012
2. The Lions 5/25/2012
3. The Living Wire 5/25/2012
4. The Mask 5/25/2012
5. The New Judas 5/25/2012
6. Nomina Sunt Consequentia Rerum 5/25/2012
7. No Song 5/25/2012
8. Seals Of Thunder 5/25/2012
9. See The Crocus’ Golden Cup 5/25/2012
10. Signs And Wonders 5/25/2012
11. The Spark 5/25/2012
12. The Heritage To The Race Of Kings 5/25/2012
13. Toihthe 5/25/2012
14. The Worm Joseph 5/25/2012
15. Your Fault 5/25/2012
16. Your Fault 5/25/2012
17. Your Fear 5/25/2012
18. Prothalamion 5/25/2012
19. New Love 5/25/2012
20. The Living Temple 5/25/2012
21. The Cloud 5/25/2012
22. Before The Glory Of Your Love 5/25/2012
23. O Bright! The Stateliness And Grace 5/25/2012
24. Occulta 5/25/2012
25. My Lady Has The Grace Of Death 5/25/2012
26. There Is No Deed I Would Not Dare 5/25/2012
27. The Vigil Of Love 5/25/2012
28. Your Songs 5/25/2012
29. Your Pride 5/25/2012
30. The Stars Sang In God's Garden 5/25/2012
31. 1841-1891 5/25/2012
32. Heaven In Hell 5/25/2012
33. Arbor Vitae 5/25/2012
34. Daybreak 5/25/2012
35. Die Taube 5/25/2012
36. The Claim That Has The Canker On The Rose 5/25/2012
37. It Is Her Voice Who Dwells Within The Emerald Wall And Sapphire House Of Flame 5/25/2012
38. Aaron 5/25/2012
39. When I Am Dead 5/25/2012
40. O Lovely Heart 5/25/2012
Best Poem of Joseph Mary Plunkett

I See His Blood Upon The Rose

I see his blood upon the rose
And in the stars the glory of his eyes,
His body gleams amid eternal snows,
His tears fall from the skies.

I see his face in every flower;
The thunder and the singing of the birds
Are but his voice—and carven by his power
Rocks are his written words.

All pathways by his feet are worn,
His strong heart stirs the ever-beating sea,
His crown of thorns is twined with every thorn,
His cross is every tree.

Read the full of I See His Blood Upon The Rose

1867

All our best ye have branded
When the people were choosing them,
When ’twas Death they demanded
Ye laughed! Ye were losing them.
But the blood that ye spilt in the night
Crieth loudly to God,
And their name hath the strength and the might
Of a sword for the sod.

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