Page:The Tricolour, Poems of the Irish Revolution.djvu/58



day I lie beneath the great pine tree, Whose perfumed branches wave and shadow me. I hear the groaning of its straining heart As in the breeze its thin leaves meet and part Like frantic fingers loosened and entwined; I hear it whisper to the sighing wind, “What of the mountain peaks, where I was born?” As sharp tears drop I feel its falling thorn.

I see in the far clouds the wild geese fly, Homeward once more, free, in the storm-swept sky. Back to the land they loved, all, all, have gone, How swift the flight by joy and hope led on. “What of the mountain land where I was born?” I cry, they pass, glad in the dawning morn, Home to the moon-pale lake, the heath-clad hill, And give no thought for one imprisoned still