Mary O'Donovan died yesterday; She was 73, and weary and gray; Tomorrow, they're laying her body away. But, somehow, I cannot believe her dead -- Her father's fields were so green, she said, And the Irish skies were so blue overhead .... "There's never a lark in Americay Can sing like the little brown birds," she'd say, "In me father's fields, where I used to play. Sure, there's many a year betwix' and betwain, But I know as certain as sun and rain, Someday I'll be turnin' back home, again." Over at Donovan's house, tonight, A corpse lies cold in the candlelight, And tomorrow the grave will hold it tight; But I feel no grief, and I can't pretend So I'll shed no tear, though she was my friend, For I know that an exile's come to an end. I close my eyes and I see her there, A madcap girl with wind-tossed hair, Running and laughing and devil-may-care ... To her father's fields, where she used to play, With an angel of God to lead the way, Mary O'Donovan went, yesterday. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...A SECOND REVIEW OF THE GRAND ARMY [MAY 24, 1865] by FRANCIS BRET HARTE THE BELLS OF LONDON by MOTHER GOOSE WORDLY WISE (10) by MOTHER GOOSE THE LONG AGO by BENJAMIN FRANKLIN TAYLOR IMPROMPTU LINES ON JULY FOURTH by FRANKLIN PIERCE ADAMS WITH MY FANCY by KONSTANTIN DMITRIYEVICH BALMONT |