Classic Poem

PATRICK Henry P EARSE

I N this grey morning wrapped in mist and rain
You stood erect beneath the sullen sky,
A heart which held its peace and noble pain,
A brave and gentle eye!

The last of all your silver songs are sung;
Your fledgling dreams on broken wings are dashed —
For suddenly a tragic sword was swung
And ten true rifles crashed.

By one who walks aloof in English ways
Be this high word of praise and sorrow said:
He lived with honour all his lovely days,
And is immortal, dead!