My Poet Poem by Thomas MacDonagh

My Poet



--My poet the rose of his fancies
Wrought unwritten in verse,
And left but the lilies and pansies
To strew his early hearse.

--The master-dream of your poet
Has perished for ever then?
--What know we? Should we know it
If it were born again?

Monday, September 20, 2010
Topic(s) of this poem: rose
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Thomas MacDonagh

Thomas MacDonagh

Cloughjordan / Ireland
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