Patrick Kavanagh

April dusk

April dusk It is tragic to be a poet now And not a lover Paradised under the mutest bough. I look through my window and see The ghost of life flitting bat-winged. O I am as old as a sage can even be, O I am as lonely as the first fool kinged. The horse in his stall turns away From the hay-filled manger, dreaming of grass Soft and cool in hollows. Does he neigh Jealousy-words for John MacGuigan's ass That never was civilised in stall or trace. An unmusical ploughboy whistles down the lane Not worried at all about the fate of Europe. While I sit here feeling the subtle pain Of one whose Tree of God has been uprooted.

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