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.
We shall have long cold days before again
April will dance in our hearts' ballroom
We shall suffer as modern savages must
Who have painted civilization-brightness on the wheels of soul.
Ah we shall survive
This is the hope will sustain
When the fire is black on the hearth of Ireland
And love is just a polished sophist on the last up-train.
