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(See note to Terence McSwiney's Ghost)

You were too tensely moral for a bard,
Preferring what was right to what was true;
(I grant - but not as though I thought it hard -
You rank above our college crew).
Your seriousness, on every line alert,
Eliminates whatever might demean;
Voiceless, not like the sea, your stormy heart -
You dreaded to have contradiction seen.
Your soul your minefield - not the souls where grew
Plunkett's remote and mapless reverie;
The fire that Pearse had stolen, he alone;
McDonagh's curious audacity.
No one has read your death; you are unknown;
Music, perhaps, alone had uttered you.