On a Poet Patriot
by Thomas MacDonagh (1878-1916)

His songs were a little phrase
      Of eternal song,
Drowned in the harping of lays
      More loud and long.

His deed was a single word,
      Called out alone
In a night when no echo stirred
      To laughter or moan.

But his songs new souls shall thrill,
      The loud harps dumb,
And his deed the echoes fill
      When the dawn is come.

Views: 39