The Fallen Angels left all there And hid from God under the laurels Till the trouble passed; the war over.
UCD B4
Untitled (In the woods there lived a cat)
In the woods there lived a cat White as snow and very fat He live[d] on robins, larks.
In Memory of My Mother
(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.
Untitled (Little snail, run, run)
Little snail run, run Into those weeds or under that stone For the blackbird has stopped Has stopped, 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?
Untitled (Ride him. Are these boys and girls)
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.
Untitled (Can a man grow from the dead clod of failure)
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.