On whose pale dreams no sunrise joy shall burst,
No harper’s song shall pierce with battle-thrill.
Long from their purpled heights,
Their reign of high delights,
The Queens have wended down Death’s mildewed stair,
Leaving a scent of lilies on the air,
To gladden Earth through all her days and nights,
That once she cherished anything so fair.
DEATH OF CUCHULAIN
By Eleanor Rogers Cox