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Walt Whitman - Old Ireland
Work rating: Low

FAR hence, amid an isle of wondrous beauty,
Crouching over a grave, an ancient, sorrowful mother,
Once a queen—now lean and tatter`d, seated on the ground,
Her old white hair drooping dishevel`d round her shoulders;
At her feet fallen an unused royal harp,
Long silent—she too long silent—mourning her shrouded hope and
         heir;
Of all the earth her heart most full of sorrow, because most full of
         love.

Yet a word, ancient mother;
You need crouch there no longer on the cold ground, with forehead
         between your knees;
O you need not sit there, veil`d in your old white hair, so
         dishevel`d;                                                  


For know you, the one you mourn is not in that grave;
It was an illusion—the heir, the son you love, was not really dead;
The Lord is not dead—he is risen again, young and strong, in another
         country;
Even while you wept there by your fallen harp, by the grave,
What you wept for, was translated, pass`d from the grave,
The winds favor`d, and the sea sail`d it,
And now with rosy and new blood,
Moves to-day in a new country.
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