Poem by Thomas MacDonagh

A Woman

Time on her face has writ
    A hundred years,
And all the page of it
    Blurred with his tears;

Yet in his holiest crypt
    Treasuring the scroll,
Keeps the sweet manuscript
    Fair as her soul.

1. To a Wise Man
2. Of the Man of My First Play
3. Dublin Tramcars
4. Cormac Óg
5. The Philistine

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