Mo ghrá geal,
If I know no other utterance in that tongue,
These words in me dwell.
Poetry is dead, but I bear its curse
To tell of how I feel.
My native tongue imprisons me—
So to Eireann’s whispers her radiance I seal.
Never have I seen such beauty,
Nor had walls fallen with such haste.
A poet crowned in a ring of fire,
And now my life, by her is graced.
No other words, no other language
Satisfies my eyes, feeds my lips.
English starves me into a voiceless hell:
So I claim mo ghrá geal.
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