April dusk It is tragic to be a poet now And not a lover Paradised under the mutest bough. I look through my window and see The ghost of life flitting bat-winged. O I am as old as a sage can even be, O I am as lonely as the first fool kinged. The horse in his stall turns away From the hay-filled manger, dreaming of grass Soft and cool in hollows. O does he neigh Jealousy-words for John Mac Guigan's ass That never was civilised in stall or trace. An unmusical ploughboy whistles down the lane Not worried at all about the fate of Europe. While I sit here feeling the subtle pain That every silenced poet has endured.