O heart the winds have shaken, the unappeasable host Is comelier than candles at Mother Mary's feet.

I--love's skein upon the ground, My body in the tomb-- Shall leap into the light lost In my mother's womb.

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.

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.