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Poem by Thomas MacDonagh

My Poet

--My poet the rose of his fancies
Wrought unwritten in verse,
And left but the lilies and pansies
To strew his early hearse.

--The master-dream of your poet
Has perished for ever then?
--What know we? Should we know it
If it were born again? 

Thomas MacDonagh

Thomas MacDonagh's other poems:
  1. The Seasons And The Leaves
  2. Requies
  3. A Season Of Repose
  4. Uber Allen Gipfellen Ist Ruh
  5. To Eoghan

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