TO IRELAND.
Your hair is streaming down the wind — Each strand I recognise; Your tears have made your .bright eyes blind— I know those soft gray eyes. Dark little Rose, those tears you shed Belong to eyes long closed and dead. Your voice strikes all the stars with pain; That voice wove my young sleep. Why docs that voice of dreams again Come bleeding when you weep ? Dark little Rose, I heard your sigh Pass through dear lips about to die. I see red anguish in your face; Hers was .like Yuletide snow ;. I should have died if any trace Of sorrow marked her brow; And yet your face ploughed deep with woes Is hers, is hers, dark little Rose. Your blood is mine, as hers is mine; It flames with frenzied heat To see your holy form supine Beneath the world's coarse feet. I know why blood so gladly flows For your sweet sake, dark little Rose. —Rev. J. Daly, in the Queen's Work.
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https://paperspast.natlib.govt.nz/periodicals/NZT19210901.2.15
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New Zealand Tablet, Volume XLVIII, Issue 35, 1 September 1921, Page 11
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165TO IRELAND. New Zealand Tablet, Volume XLVIII, Issue 35, 1 September 1921, Page 11
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