At the End
by Thomas MacDonagh (1878-1916)

The songs that I sing
Should have told you an Easter story
Of a long sweet Spring
With its gold and its feasts and its glory.

Of the moons then that married
Green May to the mellow September,
Long noons that ne’er tarried
Life’s hail and farewell to remember—

But the haste of the years
Had rushed to the fall of our sorrow,
To the waste of our tears,
The hush and the pall of our morrow.

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