Patrick Kavanagh

A Beggar’s Ease

The holes in my coat of want
Were the praise of good clothing.
Her chill indifferent taunt,
Whom I loved, was the proving
Of earnest young loving.

Now the chair of comfort is set
And the air in my room is warm
Good things on my table, and yet
Beyond reach of my arm
The potion of charm.

The hand of Soft Ease is hard
It was never raised in Heaven
The eyes of Soft Ease are starred
In wastes where no driven
Truths have striven.
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