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!