Poets, Utopians, bravest of the brave,
Pearse and MacDonagh, Plunkett, Connolly,
Dreamers turned fighters but to find a grave,
Glad for the dream's austerity to die.

And my own sister, through wild bours of pain,
Whilst murderous bombs were blotting out the stars,
Little I thought to see you smile again
As I did yesterday, through prison bars.

Oh bitterest sorrow of that land of tears,
Utopia, Ireland of the coming time,
That thy true citizens through weary years
Can for thy sake but make their grief sublime!

Dreamers turned fighters but to find a grave —
Too great for victory, too brave for war,
Would you had dreamed the gentler dream of Maeve . . . .
Peace be with you, and love for evermore.