（In memory of Joseph Mary Plunkett） （"Romantic Ireland's dead and gone, It's with O'Leary in the grave."） William Butler Yeats.

    "Romantic Ireland's dead and gone, It's with O'Leary in the grave." Then, Yeats, what gave that Easter dawn A hue¹ so radiantly brave？

    There was a rain of blood that day, Red rain in gay blue April weather. It blessed the earth till it gave birth To valour thick as blooms of heather.

    Romantic Ireland never dies！ O'Leary lies in fertile ground, And songs and spears throughout the years Rise up where patriot² graves are found.

    Immortal³ patriots⁴ newly dead And ye that bled in bygone years, What banners rise before your eyes？ What is the tune⁵ that greets your ears？

    The young Republic's banners smile For many a mile where troops convene⁶. O'Connell Street is loudly sweet With strains of Wearing of the Green.

    The soil of Ireland throbs⁷ and glows With life that knows the hour is here To strike again like Irishmen For that which Irishmen hold dear.

    Lord Edward leaves his resting place And Sarsfield's face is glad and fierce. See Emmet leap from troubled sleep To grasp the hand of Padraic Pearse！

    There is no rope can strangle song And not for long death takes his toll⁸. No prison bars can dim the stars Nor quicklime eat the living soul.

    Romantic Ireland is not old. For years untold⁹ her youth will shine. Her heart is fed on Heavenly bread, The blood of martyrs¹⁰ is her wine.