DISPOSSESSED POET I am from Ireland, The sad country, Born, as can be proved, In her chief city. When I was a child, I heard much slander Touching her, from goose And hissing gander. When I was a youth, A war sent me Two seas off from her, In longing twenty. It was there I found A taste for roaming, As in summers hot Bees do for swarming. No land sees me now Five moons or longer, Even she who reared Proves little stronger. I have lost her speech; Her men would count me Stranger if I spoke, Not of their country. I have lost her ways, Her thought, her murmur; I have lost all But my love for her. -- Monk Gibbon (born 1896)