After the heat
of struggle comes the cold:
Like you, I must resist, now, growing old.
Never without
foes, often unsure of a friend,
Unlucky in love like you till near the end,
Passionately I
take the strength you give,
And wonder
whether my words, like yours, will live.
True Irish to the marrow, you took old age
Dreaming and
fighting. And, tempering your rage
With the blood,
bone, and sinew of your art,
Defied both defeat
and triumph. So great was your heart.
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