on the death of a poet composed during the last illness of Eochaidh Ó hEodhasa

Poetry is touched by decline: how can we come to her aid? She is sure all hope is gone in her poorly state.

Consider poetry’s plight, fit only for the sickbed as word of Eochaidh’s death is brought to her who was his bride.

It is hard to witness the honour once hers turn to scorn: woeful indignity drawing near, the cloud of abasement come down.   To Eochaidh above all men she gave the flower in its prime of her artistry and love; and all to nourish him.

The hidden ore of his poet’s craft burned with a gemlike flame lighting up the art he left; much died with his name.

Well he knew the schoolmen’s work, who sat among the wise; poet of the golden cloak, a great lament shall be his.

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