Called a meddlesome witch by the Brits,
this black-haired beauty, pride of County Claire,
this daughter of Erin, this Nightingale,
stole the heart of young William whose air
praised her walk, and the stones beneath her feet.
She cast off the crone
to stride as a Queen,
did young Kathleen.
But Billy did not win her hand; this water hyacinth,
with her labyrinthine lust,
and in-your-face politics,
did time in Holloway,
her youth martyred by an unjust Crown.
Iseult, and Geroges, by Lucien,
gave silent testimony to the strength
of her patriotism. Though she lost her husband
and her youth to British greed and cruelty,
she gave it willingly. Now interred in Glasnevin,
with Pearse and Plunkett,
her beauty is her legacy.
This poem about Maude Gonne, the unrequited love of William Butler Yeats, I have posted in response to Library Princess's post of a poem about Yeats by W.H.Auden.
Oh, btw, I wrote it, for whatever that is worth.