The Tidings (Easter 1916)

By Lola Ridge

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!