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Poem by Thomas MacDonagh
At the End
The songs that I sing Should have told you an Easter story Of a long sweet Spring With its gold and its feasts and its glory. Of the moons then that married Green May to the mellow September, Long noons that ne'er tarried Life's hail and farewell to remember-- But the haste of the years Had rushed to the fall of our sorrow, To the waste of our tears, The hush and the pall of our morrow.
Thomas MacDonagh's other poems:
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