Patrick Kavanagh


You who have not sown
Will eat the bitter bread
And beg the sweetness of a stone
Flung at Saint Stephen's head.

You who have not sung
Will hear the clang of brass
When fairies beat on April's gong
With stems of greening grass.

And you who have not prayed
The blackbird's evening prayer
Will kneel all night dismayed
Upon a frozen stair.
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