Click in the field, then press CTRL+C to copy the HTML code
Requiem Éire
There is a place not far from Yeats' Tower.
No life grows there, no lively tune, nor poets power
Has ever rang of this land. Yet here I may recall,
In remembrance, Roscommon; land of the funeral pall.
Headstones have they planted in every field,
Springing forth from grey faced loins, and thus a graveyard yield.
The dead outnumber the living, the youth long gone from the yard.
Inevitably interred in the adjoining garden, they stamped down hard.
There was a wedding there amongst the old dying firs.
The bride wore white, with flowers from a broken wreath.
A funeral plot the wedding gift- a family grave.
Life was buried there; man, woman and unborn child.
What they had, they gave,
And into the ground they piled.
poem
by
Keith Moynihan O' Brien
solid border
dashed border
dotted border
double border
groove border
ridge border
inset border
outset border
no border
blue
green
red
purple
cyan
gold
silver
black