From An Macaomh, Christmas 1909

Poor splendid Poet of the burning eyes
And withered hair and godly pallid brow,
Low-voiced and shrinking and apart wert thou,
And little men thy dreaming could despise.
How vain, how vain the laughter of the wise!
Before thy Folly’s throne their children bow—
For lo ! thy deathless spirit triumphs now,
And mortal wrongs and envious Time defies,

And all their prate of frailty: thou didst stand
The barren virtue of their lives above,
And above lures of fame though to thy hand
All strings of music throbbed, thy single love
Was, in high trust, to hymn thy Gaelic land
And passionate proud woes of Roisin Dubh.