Where are you, Spirit, who could pass into our hearts and all
Hearts of little children, hearts of trees and hills, and elves?
Where is the pen that could, sweetly deep and whimsical,
Make old poets sing again far better than themselves?

You passed through all our past worst time, and proved yourself no caitiff
America then listened to a voice too dear for wealth;
Then you went to London, where I fear you have “gone native”,
Too long in a metropolis will tax a poet's health:

It's not as if you had no wit, and cared for recognition;
A mind that lit the Liffey could emblazon all the Thames,
But we're not ourselves without you, and we long for coalition;
Oh, half of Erin's energy! What can have happened, James?