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? 

1. Dublin Tramcars
2. The Philistine
3. The Stars Stand up in the Air
4. Requies
5. On a Poet Patriot

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