Joyce Kilmer pushes back hard against Yeats’s famous line that “Romantic Ireland’s dead and gone.” Written right after the 1916 Easter Rising, the poem insists the opposite: the rebellion’s bloodshed has made Ireland more alive, not less. Kilmer frames the uprising as a defiant answer to Yeats’s gloom, turning that Easter dawn into something radiantly brave. The speaker’s mood is exultant and reverent, blending battlefield imagery with religious awe — the “red rain” that fell in blue April weather blesses the ground and grows courage like heather. Martyrs from past centuries rise to greet the leaders just executed, and the streets echo with “The Wearing of the Green.” There’s a fierce, almost breathless joy in the poem’s rhythm. It treats martyrdom not as an ending but as a continuous, nourishing force: prison bars can’t dim the stars, quicklime can’t eat the living soul, and the blood of the fallen becomes sacramental wine. The overall mood is one of resurrection, a bold claim that Ireland’s rebellious spirit is eternally young.
Easter Week — Summary
(In memory of Joseph Mary Plunkett)
("Romantic Ireland's dead and gone, It's with O'Leary in the grave.")
William Butler Yeats.
"Romantic Ireland's dead and gone, It's with O'Leary in the grave." Then, Yeats, what gave that Easter dawn A hue so radiantly brave? There was a rain of blood that day, Red rain in gay blue April weather. It blessed the earth till it gave birth To valour thick as blooms of heather. Romantic Ireland never dies! O'Leary lies in fertile ground, And songs and spears throughout the years Rise up where patriot graves are found. Immortal patriots newly dead And ye that bled in bygone years, What banners rise before your eyes? What is the tune that greets your ears? The young Republic's banners smile For many a mile where troops convene. O'Connell Street is loudly sweet With strains of Wearing of the Green. The soil of Ireland throbs and glows With life that knows the hour is here To strike again like Irishmen For that which Irishmen hold dear. Lord Edward leaves his resting place And Sarsfield's face is glad and fierce. See Emmet leap from troubled sleep To grasp the hand of Padraic Pearse! There is no rope can strangle song And not for long death takes his toll. No prison bars can dim the stars Nor quicklime eat the living soul. Romantic Ireland is not old. For years untold her youth will shine. Her heart is fed on Heavenly bread, The blood of martyrs is her wine.