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Poem by Gerald Massey
THE sleep of the Dreamer is dying; The Dream is about to be born! 'Tis a vision of England untying Poor Ireland's Crown of Thorn! The Night with its shadows is flying, And we shall see clearer at morn: We feel the first airs that come sighing, A new life to waken, and warn Of a Light in which tears shall be drying, And hell-fire no longer can burn; Our old earth shall cease from her crying, Nor vainly to heaven will yearn: Immortals with mortals be vieing To lift up the fall'n and forlorn. We stand 'twixt the dawning and dying, That mingle their verge and their bourne,Ч The Past, in its shroud-shadow, trying To hide its face, tortured and torn; The future before us enskying A glimpse of Millennial Morn. 'Tis the vision of England untying Poor Ireland's Crown of Thorn, And the sleep of the Dreamer is dying: The Dream is about to be born.
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