Page:A treasury of war poetry, British and American poems of the world war, 1914-1919.djvu/58

 IRELAND

MOUNTAINS of Erin,

Your beauty is fled;

Beyond you, in Flanders,

My darling lies dead.

Through the dunes and the grasses

Bespattered with blood,

They bore him; and round him,

Bareheaded, they stood,

While the chaplain in khaki

Was reading a prayer,

And the wind for his keening

Was moaning an air.

O son of grey Connaught,

No more shall we stand

By the dark lough at evening,

My hand in your hand,

And talk of a houseen

To hold you and me,

The scent of the heather,

The gorse on the lea.

Yet, bridegroom of mine,

You are waiting afar,

Past the peak and the blueness,

The shine of yon star,