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. The Worm Joseph 5/25/2012
14. Your Fault 5/25/2012
15. Your Fault 5/25/2012
16. Your Fear 5/25/2012
17. Prothalamion 5/25/2012
18. New Love 5/25/2012
19. The Living Temple 5/25/2012
20. The Cloud 5/25/2012
21. Before The Glory Of Your Love 5/25/2012
22. O Bright! The Stateliness And Grace 5/25/2012
23. Occulta 5/25/2012
24. My Lady Has The Grace Of Death 5/25/2012
25. There Is No Deed I Would Not Dare 5/25/2012
26. The Vigil Of Love 5/25/2012
27. Your Songs 5/25/2012
28. Your Pride 5/25/2012
29. The Stars Sang In God's Garden 5/25/2012
30. 1841-1891 5/25/2012
31. Heaven In Hell 5/25/2012
32. Arbor Vitae 5/25/2012
33. Daybreak 5/25/2012
34. Die Taube 5/25/2012
35. It Is Her Voice Who Dwells Within The Emerald Wall And Sapphire House Of Flame 5/25/2012
36. Toihthe 5/25/2012
37. When I Am Dead 5/25/2012
38. Aaron 5/25/2012
39. O Lovely Heart 5/25/2012
40. A Wave Of The Sea 5/25/2012

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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

Arbor Vitae

Beside the golden gate there grows a tree
Whose heavy fruit gives entrance to the ways
Of Wonder, and the leaves thereof are days
Of desolation—nights of agony
The buds and blossom for the fruits to be:
Rooted in terror the dead trunk decays,
The burdened branches drooping to the clays
Clammy with blood of crushed humanity.

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