Katharine Tynan Poems

To men now of her blood and race
England's a little garden place,
Dear as a woman is, and she
The Queen of every loyalty.
...

They lifted up his weary head,
Stained with a dark and bitter dew:
'How does the battle go?' he said.
...

Voice of a great wind, of wild ocean surges,
Storming the gates of Heaven,
The people of God singing under the scourges
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One called from Salonika and his call
Rang to his brother;
Forded wide rivers, climbed the mountain wall,
Seeking the other.
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WEAVE me no wreath of orange blossom,
No bridal white shall me adorn;
I wear a red rose in my bosom;
To-morrow I shall wear the thorn.
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The Convent garden lies so near
The road the people go,
If it was quiet you might hear
The nuns' talk, merry and low.
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She had twelve stars for diadem;
She had for footstool the full moon;
Her quiet eyes, outshining them,
Kept memories of the night and noon
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NOW strikes the hour upon the clock
The black sheep may rebuild the years
May lift the father's pride he broke
And wipe away his mother's tears.
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Who said the Spring was dead?
She would not come again,
Dust on her starry head,
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O, the red rose may be fair,
And the lily statelier;
But my shamrock, one in three,
Takes the very heart of me!
...