Patrick Kavanagh

The Seed and the Soil

Hell

Once imagined I
Myself sitting high
On the sacred seat
The whole base world at my feet

I poet of light
Guiding the flight
Of the ecstatic child
Lest he be clay-defiled.

Hope

The fire goes out
We sit with our palms over it
Like the priest at the Consecration
We sit huddled old forlorn folk
Remembering, striving to hold against the dark-to-come
Some of the ballad-liveliness
When minds were supple
And there were poems hidden under the black-oak couple.

In One Moment

Dark incomprehensible woman suddenly
Stepped down beside me out of a place of green leaves,
Lovely as a remembered joy lighting up tragedy,
Younger than the larks-dawn yet older than a million eves,

Once, and with long white fingers tapped my shoulder.
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