With wilding flowers plucked in an Irish lane.
Your songs were like sweet waters to the throat,
Or tenderness and freshness of young leaves;
Surely the blackbird checks his laughing note,
And for your loss the dripping rainbow grieves.
With Brooke you are gone, with Grenfell, on high ways
Lost to our sense, beyond the chance of wrong;
Singers fall silent in these thunderous days,
But their bright death is radiance and a song.
—God send kind sleep to those clear Irish eyes