Patrick Kavanagh


Her name was poet's grief before
Mary, the saddest name
In all the litanies of love
And all the books of fame.

I think of poor John Clare's beloved
And know the blessed pain
When crusts of death are broken
And tears are blossomed rain.

And why should I lament the wind
Of chance that brought her here
To be an April offering
For sins my heart held dear.

And though her passing was for me
The death of something sweet,
Her name's in every prayer, her charm
In every face I meet.
Scroll to Top