Our language must have seemed among the learned Cliches of the morning press, but we earned Our eighteen pence a line and as time passed On Dublin papers reporters became at last.
MS Poems
Untitled (By Raglan Road and Hollis [sic] Street…)
By Raglan Road and Hollis [sic] Street I shall walk blind Remembering that through her eyes I first looked there At walls and windows that became more rare Than Eden flowering in a poet's mind.
Dead In a Ditch
(To Hilda) Unless you come I shall die in a ditch, Poet dead in a ditch.
Untitled (Hilda, I have day-dreamed walking the streets)
Hilda, I have day-dreamed walking the streets For years, and walking the fields I have filled the Hours with happy imaginings.
Untitled (The bluebells are withered now under the beech trees)
The bluebells are withered now under the beech trees And I am there - the ghost of myself - alone Trying to remember a truth I once had known Poking among the weeds on bare knees Praying, praying poetic incantation To call back life to that once-green plantation.