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