FAR hence, amid an isle of wondrous beauty,
Crouching over a grave, an ancient, sorrowful mother,
Once a queennow lean and tatterd, seated on the ground,
Her old white hair drooping disheveld round her shoulders;
At her feet fallen an unused royal harp,
Long silentshe too long silentmourning her shrouded hope and heir;
Of all the earth her heart most full of sorrow, because most full of love.
Yet a word, ancient mother;
You need crouch there no longer or the cold ground, with forehead between your knees;
O you need not sit there, veild in your old white hair, so disheveld;
For know you, the one you mourn is not in that grave;
It was an illusionthe heir, the son you love, was not really dead;
The Lord is not deadhe is risen again, young and strong, in another country;
Even while you wept there by your fallen harp, by the grave,
What you wept for, was translated, passd from the grave,
The winds favord, and the sea saild it,
And now with rosy and new blood,
Moves to-day in a new country.
Old Ireland.
written byWalt Whitman
© Walt Whitman