Swift’s Tomb in Saint Patrick’s

Stripped to his legend like an Irish war,
The madman lies beneath a name in bronze.
Above him tramp the heels of girls and deans,
Statesmen and tourists come on business here.
How can the heart find grace or peace before
Its God, knowing that fury in the stones?
Can Stella pray now? Whose unshielded glance
Stoned her forever in a trodden floor?

High in the choir cry the English dead;
The few loved far away in England call.
Outside, the Romans, broken up like bread,
Move to their marvels, know him not at all
Who studied hate lest pity turn him mad
And wore love’s seamless fabric like a pall.