This is thy day, thy day of all the years. <br />Ireland! The night of anger and mute gloom, <br />Where thou didst sit, has vanished with thy tears. <br />Thou shalt no longer weep in thy lone home <br />The dead they slew for thee, or nurse thy doom, <br />Or fan the smoking flax of thy desire <br />Their hatred could not quench. Thy hour is come; <br />And these, if they would reap, must reap in fire. <br />--What shall thy vengeance be? In that long night <br />Thou hast essayed thy wrath in many ways, <br />Slaughter and havoc and Hell's deathless spite. <br />They taught thee vengeance who thus schooled thy days, <br />Taught all they knew, but not this one divine <br />Vengeance, to love them. Be that vengeance thine!<br /><br />Wilfrid Scawen Blunt<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/ireland-s-vengeance/
