THE STAR
[IN MEMORY OF PATRICK PEARSE]
I saw a dreamer, I saw a poet,
On the red battle-field fell my slow tear,
“Lover of birds and flowers, singer of gentle songs,
Dying with men of war, what do you here?”
Languid his closing eyes looked to the breaking dawn
Where the young day peeped out through prison bars,
“I on a high hill stood singing a dear old song,
I fell to earth,” he sighed, “grasping at stars.”
He laid him softly down, cold was his paling cheek,
Silent and chill he grew as the dead are,
But from his folded hands on to the crimson earth
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