The Fallen Angels left all there
And hid from God under the laurels
Till the trouble passed; the war over.
In the woods there lived a cat
White as snow and very fat
He live[d] on robins, larks.
(Died November 15.1945)
By Patrick Kavanagh.
You will have the road gate open, the front door ajar
The kettle boiling and a table set
By the window looking out at the sycamores -
And your loving heart lying in wait.
Little snail run, run
Into those weeds or under that stone
For the blackbird has stopped
His singing and hopped
Down the stairs of the trees
And one eye has popped
Like a doll's glass eye -
Is it a snail or a pebble he sees?
Ride him. Are these boys and girls
Swine unworthy of your pearls?
I wondered and I pondered long
Made for these poor folk a song
Rhymed the racing page of papers
Copied all the jazzy capers
Degraded my soul.
Can a man grow from the dead clod of failure
Some consoling flower
Something humble as a dandelion or a daisy
Something to wear as a buttonhole in Heaven.