Out of Ireland have we come, great hatred, little room, maimed us at the start. I carry from my mother's womb a fanatic heart.
I carry from my mother's womb a fanatic's heart.
I have nothing but the embittered sun; Banished heroic mother moon and vanished, And now that I have come to fifty years I must endure the timid sun.
Both nuns and mothers worship images, But those the candles light are not as those That animate a mother's reveries, But keep a marble or a bronze repose.
I--love's skein upon the ground, My body in the tomb-- Shall leap into the light lost In my mother's womb.
O heart the winds have shaken, the unappeasable host Is comelier than candles at Mother Mary's feet.
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