As a tribute to the clown who won the great wheel-barrow race.
Now, one shall work in the living rock with a mallet and a knife,

And another shall dance on a big white horse that canters round a ring,
By another's hand shall colours stand in similitude of life;

And the hearts of the three shall be moved by one mysterious high thing.
For the sculptor and the acrobat and the painter are the same.

They know one hope, one fear, one pride, one sorrow and one mirth,
And they take delight in the endless fight for the fickle world's acclaim;

For they worship art above the clouds and serve her on the earth.
But you, who can build of the stubborn rock no form of loveliness,

Who can never mingle the radiant hues to make a wonder live,
Who can only show your little woe to the world in a rhythmic dress --

What kind of a counterpart of you does the three-ring circus give?
Well -- here in the little side-show tent to-day some people stand,

One is a giant, one a dwarf, and one has a figured skin,
And each is scarred and seared and marred by Fate's relentless hand,

And each one shows his grief for pay, with a sort of pride therein.
You put your sorrow into rhyme and want the world to look;

You sing the news of your ruined hope and want the world to hear;
Their woe is pent in a canvas tent and yours in a printed book.

O, poet of the broken heart, salute your brothers here!
Queen Elizabeth Speaks

My hands were stained with blood, my heart was proud and cold,
My soul is black with shame . . . but I gave Shakespeare gold.

So after aeons of flame, I may, by grace of God,
Rise up to kiss the dust that Shakespeare's feet have trod.

Mid-ocean in War-time
(For My Mother)

The fragile splendour of the level sea,
The moon's serene and silver-veiled face,

Make of this vessel an enchanted place
Full of white mirth and golden sorcery.

Now, for a time, shall carelesslaughter be
Blended with song, to lend song sweeter grace,

And the old stars, in their unending race,
Shall heed and envy young humanity.

And yet to-night, a hundred leagues away,
These waters blush a strange and awful red.

Before the moon, a cloud obscenely grey
Rises from decks that crash with flying lead.

And these stars smile their immemorial way
On waves that shroud a thousand newly dead!

In Memory of Rupert Brooke
In alien earth, across a troubled sea,

His body lies that was so fair and young.
His mouth is stopped, with half his songs unsung;

His arm is still, that struck to make men free.
But let no cloud of lamentation be

Where, on a warrior's grave, a lyre is hung.
We keep the echoes of his golden tongue,

We keep the vision of his chivalry.
So Israel's joy, the loveliest of kings,

Smote now his harp, and now the hostile horde.
To-day the starry roof of Heaven rings

With psalms a soldier made to praise his Lord;
And David rests beneath Eternal wings,

Song on his lips, and in his hand a sword.
The New School

(For My Mother)
The halls that were loud with the merry tread of young and careless feet

Are still with a stillness that is too drear to seem like holiday,
And never a gust of laughter breaks the calm of the dreaming street

Or rises to shake the ivied walls and frighten the doves away.
The dust is on book and on empty desk, and the tennis-racquet and balls

Lie still in their lonely locker and wait for a game that is never played,
And over the study and lecture-room and the river and meadow falls

A stern peace, a strange peace, a peace that War has made.
For many a youthful shoulder now is gay with an epaulet,

And the hand that was deft with a cricket-bat is defter with a sword,
And some of the lads will laugh to-day where the trench is red and wet,

And some will win on the bloody field the accolade of the Lord.
They have taken their youth and mirth away

from the study and playing-ground
To a new school in an alien land beneath an alien sky;

Out in the smoke and roar of the fight their lessons and games are found,
And they who were learning how to live are learning how to die.

And after the golden day has come and the war is at an end,
A slab of bronze on the chapel wall will tell of the noble dead.

And every name on that radiant list will be the name of a friend,
A name that shall through the centuries in grateful prayers be said.

And there will be ghosts in the old school,
brave ghosts with laughing eyes,

On the field with a ghostly cricket-bat, by the stream with a ghostly rod;
They will touch the hearts of the living with a flame that sanctifies,

A flame that they took with strong young hands
from the altar-fires of God.

Easter Week
(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 hue 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 patriot graves are found.
Immortal patriots newly dead

And ye that bled in bygone years,
What banners rise before your eyes?

What is the tune that greets your ears?
The young Republic's banners smile

For many a mile where troops convene.
O'Connell Street is loudly sweet

With strains of Wearing of the Green.
The soil of Ireland throbs 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 toll.
No prison bars can dim the stars

Nor quicklime eat the living soul.
Romantic Ireland is not old.

For years untold her youth will shine.
Her heart is fed on Heavenly bread,