Patrick Kavanagh

To Rita O’Dywer [sic]

In cold metal this sonnet for you I turn
Upon the dented anvil of my mind.
My smithy fires black out - yet I will burn
My heart to dreams again. The bellows wind
Will be an angel woman's gentle pant
More furious than the gathered shouts of Doom
My forge will be flame-blossomed when the scant
Kindlings of many fires are ghosts. To who[m]
Will the frozen pretties plead against the chill
Romantic corpses freezing where they lie
All that was holy-fair? as dance-gods spill
Out of the halls like tears from death's blank eye.
O may you know, O may you understand
When you touch cold Logic with your warm hand.
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