  The Little Black Rose shall be red at last; What made it black but the March wind dry, And the tear of the widow that fell on it fast? The Silk of the Kine shall rest at last; What drove her forth but the dragon-fly? In the golden vale she shall feed full fast, With her mild gold horn and her slow, dark eye. The wounded wood-dove lies dead at last! The pine long bleeding, it shall not die! This song is secret. Mine ear it passed In a wind o'er the plains at Athenry. Aubrey de Vere |
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