To the Rose upon the Rood of Time

 Red Rose， proud Rose， sad Rose of all my days！

    Come near me， while I sing the ancient ways：

    Cuchulain battling with the bitter tide；

    The Druid， grey， wood-nurtured， quiet-eyed，

    Who cast round Fergus dreams， and ruin untold¹；

    And thine own sadness， whereof stars， grown old

    In dancing silver-sandalled on the sea，

    Sing in their high and lonely melody.

    Come near， that no more blinded by man‘s fate，

    I find under the boughs² of love and hate，

    In all poor foolish things that live a day，

    Eternal beauty wandering on her way.

    Come near， come near， come near—Ah， leave me still

    A little space for the rose-breath to fill！

    Lest I no more hear common things that crave³；

    The weak worm hiding down in its small cave，

    The field-mouse running by me in the grass，

    And heavy mortal hopes that toil⁴ and pass；

    But seek alone to hear the strange things said

    By God to the bright hearts of those long dead，

    And learn to chaunt a tongue men do not know.

    Come near； I would， before my time to go，

    Sing of old Eire and the ancient ways：

    Red Rose， proud Rose， sad Rose of all my days.