Page:Yeats Responsibilities 1916.djvu/48



What need you, being come to sense, But fumble in a greasy till And add the halfpence to the pence And prayer to shivering prayer, until You have dried the marrow from the bone; For men were born to pray and save: Romantic Ireland's dead and gone, It's with O'Leary in the grave.

Yet they were of a different kind The names that stilled your childish play, They have gone about the world like wind, But little time had they to pray For whom the hangman's rope was spun,