The Tidings (easter 1916)

Censored lies that mimic truth...
Censored truth as pale as fear...
My heart is like a rousing bell -
And but the dead to hear...

My heart is like a mother bird,
Circling ever higher,
And the nest-tree rimmed about
By a forest fire...

My heart is like a lover foiled
By a broken stair -
They are fighting to-night in Sackville Street,
And I am not there!