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Leaves of Grass (1891-92)
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OLD IRELAND.
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,
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Of all the earth her heart most full of sorrow because most full of
love.
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Yet a word ancient mother, |
You need crouch there no longer on the cold ground with fore-
head between your knees,
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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 son you love was not really dead, |
The Lord is not dead, he is risen again young and strong in
another country,
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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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