And think, this heart, all evil shed away, A pulse in the eternal mind, no less Gives somewhere back the thoughts by England given; Her sights and sounds; dreams happy as her day; And laughter, learnt of friends; and gentleness, In hearts at peace, under an English heaven. FOOTNOTES: [19] From _The Collected Poems of Rupert Brooke_. Copyright, 1915, by John Lane Company and reprinted by permission. [20] From _The Collected Poems of Rupert Brooke_. Copyright, 1915, by John Lane Company and reprinted by permission. [21] From _The Collected Poems of Rupert Brooke_. Copyright, 1915, by John Lane Company and reprinted by permission. _Winifred M. Letts_ Winifred M. Letts was born in Ireland in 1887, and her early work concerned itself almost entirely with the humor and pathos found in her immediate surroundings. Her _Songs from Leinster_ (1913) is her most characteristic collection; a volume full of the poetry of simple people and humble souls. Although she has called herself "a back-door sort of bard," she is particularly effective in the old ballad measure and in her quaint portrayal of Irish peasants rather than of Gaelic kings and pagan heroes. She has also written three novels, five books for children, a later volume of _Poems of the War_ and, during the conflict, served as a nurse at various base hospitals. GRANDEUR Poor Mary Byrne is dead, An' all the world may see Where she lies upon her bed Just as fine as quality. She lies there still and white, With candles either hand That'll guard her through the night: Sure she never was so grand. She holds her rosary, Her hands clasped on her breast. Just as dacint as can be In the habit she's been dressed. In life her hands were red With every sort of toil, But they're white now she is dead, An' they've sorra mark of soil. The neighbours come and go, They kneel to say a prayer, I wish herself could know Of the way she's lyin' there. It was work from morn till night, And hard she earned her bread: But I'm thinking she's a right To be aisy now she's dead. When other girls were gay, At wedding or at fair, She'd be toiling all the day, Not a minyit could she spare. An' no one missed her face, Or sought her in a crowd, But to-day they throng the place Just to see her in her shroud. The creature in her life Drew trouble with each breath; She was just "poor Jim Byrne's wife"-- But she's lovely in her death. I wish the dead could see The splendour of a wake, For it's proud herself would be Of the keening that they make. Och! little Mary Byrne, You welcome every guest, Is it now you take your turn To be merry with the rest?