FAR hence, amid an isle of wondrous beauty, <br /> Crouching over a grave, an ancient, sorrowful mother, <br /> Once a queen--now lean and tatter'd, seated on the ground, <br /> Her old white hair drooping dishevel'd round her shoulders; <br /> At her feet fallen an unused royal harp, <br /> Long silent--she too long silent--mourning her shrouded hope and <br /> heir; <br /> Of all the earth her heart most full of sorrow, because most full of <br /> love. <br /> <br /> Yet a word, ancient mother; <br /> You need crouch there no longer on the cold ground, with forehead <br /> between your knees; <br /> O you need not sit there, veil'd in your old white hair, so <br /> dishevel'd; 10 <br /> For know you, the one you mourn is not in that grave; <br /> It was an illusion--the heir, the son you love, was not really dead; <br /> The Lord is not dead--he is risen again, young and strong, in another <br /> country; <br /> Even while you wept there by your fallen harp, by the grave, <br /> What you wept for, was translated, pass'd from the grave, <br /> The winds favor'd, and the sea sail'd it, <br /> And now with rosy and new blood, <br /> Moves to-day in a new country.<br /><br />Walt Whitman<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/old-ireland/
