Patrick Kavanagh


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.
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