Patrick Kavanagh

The Lady of the Poets

The Bat

I stand to-night
Leg-deep in ripened white
Grasses that excite
Glow fires of mind
And blind
Bat-winged I rise
A bat,
Where little star-eyes
Round gables peer
For wondering at.

To a Lover

To J. G.


    Slowly slowly emerge
    From the fog-sensibility
    Of affection too human
    In the [thin] rational day is tranquility

    Lest Bull of the fog
    High-horned upon you rushes,
    Fly to a hill-point
    Where love is a comic trifle that no child crushes.
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