THE SCRIBE
A hedge of trees surrounds me,
A blackbird's lay sings to me;
Above my lined booklet
The trilling birds chant to me.
In a grey mantle from the top of bushes
The cuckoo sings:
Verily—may the Lord shield me!—
Well do I write under the greenwood.
ON A DEAD SCHOLAR
Dead is Lon
Of Kilgarrow, O great hurt!
To Ireland and beyond her border
It is ruin of study and of schools.
THE CRUCIFIXION
At the cry of the first bird
They began to crucify Thee, O cheek like a swan!
It were not right ever to cease lamenting—
It was like the parting of day from night.
Ah! though sore the suffering
Put upon the body of Mary's Son—
Sorer to Him was the grief
That was upon her for His sake.
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