(Easter  1916) 

CENSORED  lies  that  mimic  truth  .  .  . 
Censored  truth  as  pale  as  fear  .  .  . 
My  heart  is  like  a  rousing  bell  — 
And  but  the  dead  to  hear  .  .  . 
My  heart  is  like  a  mother  bird, 
Circling  ever  higher, 
And  the  nest-tree  rimmed  about 
By  a  forest  fire  .  .  . 
My  heart  is  like  a  lover  foiled 
By  a  broken  stair  — 
They  are  fighting  to-night  in  Sackville  Street, 
And  I  am  not  there!