ANTHONY O'DALY

Since your limbs were laid out

The stars do not shine,

The fish leap not out

In the waves.

On our meadows the dew

Does not fall in the morn,

For O'Daly is dead:

Not a flower can be born,

Not a word can be said,

Not a tree have a leaf;

Anthony, after you

There is nothing to do,

There is nothing but grief.