I listened to high talk from you, Thomas McDonagh, and it seemed The words were idle, but they grew To nobleness by death redeemed. Life cannot utter words more great Than life may meet by sacrifice, High words were equaled by high fate, You paid the price. You paid the price. You who have fought on fields afar, That other Ireland did you wrong Who said you shadowed Ireland's star, Nor gave you laurel wreath nor song. You proved by death as true as they, In mightier conflicts played your part, Equal your sacrifice may weigh, Dear Kettle, of the generous heart. The hope lives on age after age, Earth with its beauty might be won For labor as a heritage, For this has Ireland lost a son. This hope unto a flame to fan Men have put life by with a smile, Here's to you Connolly, my man, Who cast the last torch on the pile. You too, had Ireland in your care, Who watched o'er pits of blood and mire, From iron roots leap up in air Wild forests, magical, of fire; Yet while the Nuts of Death were shed Your memory would ever stray To your own isle. Oh, gallant dead-- This wreath, Will Redmond, on your clay. Here's to you, men I never met, Yet hope to meet behind the veil, Thronged on some starry parapet, That looks down upon Innisfail, And sees the confluence of dreams That clashed together in our night, One river, born from many streams, Roll in one blaze of blinding light. December 1917 THE SPIRITUAL CONFLICT Prophetic