O cruel land, where form endures, the spirit fled!
You chill the sun for me with your gray sphinx’s smile,
Brooding in the bright silence above your captive dead,
Where beat the heart of life so brief, so brief a while!
Seumas O’Sullivan
MY SORROW
My sorrow that I am not by the little dun,
By the lake of the starlings at Rosses under the hill—
And the larks there, singing over the fields of dew,
Or evening there, and the sedges still!