Alas, the heart that devised—
alas, the mind that considered—
alas, the speech that adjudged the advice
through which that party went on that journey.
The roads were not royal roads
though daisy-covered and clover-flowered.
In a highly indulged church (no woman
ever enters by its door)
they were shown a fourth part
of the body of St George, a shoulder
of St Laurence, a tooth of Peter’s,
the forefinger of Thomas the Apostle,
the chalice out of which
John of the Bosom drank, one of the Thirty
Talents, two of the thorns, the column
of red marble from which the cock crew.
They saw also the trenches
at the river Somme
taken by three Irish companies.
There will be bitter outcries
when the corpse comes thither
at the behest of the left-handed angel.
A pity not to have Dundalk
instead of Louvain outside,
and the Cashel family on the street
instead of men who speak Dutch:
a pity that it was not young Maighréad
who was good wife in this house
last night. A pity
it is not Richard Óg
who comes with a bright cup
to O’Neill’s table.