IN MEMORY OF TIMOTHY BUCKLEY
(“The Taylor”)

Man is the torch that lights the tomb;
In England now the orchards bloom
Where flint and rosy brick expand,
And grey church towers on leafy heights;
These too some burning body lights
Like Caesar’s slave with burning hand.
The torch is out that was the sun
Which lit these lonesome hills at noon;
And night and cold streak up the glen;
Song, magic, bawdry, wit and truth,
All the wild Ireland of my youth
Is gone, and all is dark again.

Irish Times, 1945-04-28