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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. My Love To-night
  2. The Seasons And The Leaves
  3. To Eoghan
  4. Death in the Woods
  5. The Night Hunt


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