The rose came in the night and sang
of blackbirds and a bloody dawn
and waves that rose and drowned the sun
that swallowed sky and rained upon
a land of sadness full of tears.
Thousands more, too many times
the tides have ebbed and flowed again,
and still they come and still they die;
how many more before we’re done?
Through the mist a song is sung;
a thrush weeps where the rose is hung.
Poem inspired by a night of pain again, the Yeats poem, To the rose upon the rood of time, and the words to this song:
Jane Dougherty Writes 