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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=419044" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>The Dead Singer</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">'SHE is dead!' they say; 'she is robed for the grave; O there are lilies upon her breast; <br>Her mother has kissed her clay-cold lips, and folded her hands to rest; <br>Her blue eyes show through the waxen lids: they have hidden her hair's gold crown; <br>Her grave is dug, and its heap of earth is waiting to press her down.'</div><div style="margin:10px 0">'She is dead!' they say to the people, her people, for whom she sung; <br>Whose hearts she touched with sorrow and love, like a harp with life-chords strung. <br>And the people hear—but behind their tear they smile as though they heard <br>Another voice, like a mystery, proclaim another word.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">'She is not dead.' it says to their hearts; 'true Singers can never die;<br>Their life is a voice of higher things, unseen to the common eye; <br>The truths and the beauties are clear to them, God's right and the human wrong, <br>The heroes who die unknown, and the weak who are chained and scourged by the strong.' <br>And the people smile at the death-word, for the mystic voice is clear: <br>'THE SINGER WHO LIVED IS ALWAYS ALIVE: WE HEARKEN AND ALWAYS HEAR!'</div><div style="margin:10px 0">And they raise her body with tender hands, and bear her down to the main,<br>They lay her in state on the mourning ship, like the lily-maid Elaine;<br>And they sail to her isle across the sea, where the people wait on the shore<br>To lift her in silence with heads all bare to her home forevermore,<br>Her home in the heart of her country; oh, a grave among our own<br>Is warmer and dearer than living on in the stranger lands alone.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">No need of a tomb for the Singer! Her fair hair's pillow now <br>Is the sacred clay of her country, and the sky above her brow <br>Is the same that smiled and wept on her youth, and the grass around is deep<br>With the clinging leaves of the shamrock that cover her peaceful sleep.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Undreaming there she will rest and wait, in the tomb her people make, <br>Till she hears men's hearts, like the seeds in Spring, all stirring to be awake, <br>Till she feels the moving of souls that strain till the bands around them break; <br>And then, I think, her dead lips will smile and her eyes be oped to see, <br>When the cry goes out to the Nations that the Singer's land is free!</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=John+Boyle+O%27Reilly">John Boyle O'Reilly</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=419044" data-title="The Dead Singer de John Boyle O'Reilly" data-description="'SHE is dead!' they say; 'she is robed for the grave; O there are lilies upon her breast; 
Her mother has kissed her clay-cold lips, and folded her hands to rest; 
Her blue eyes show through the waxen lids: they have hidden her hair's gold crown; ..."></div>
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