St Patrick’s Day




They laughed at one I loved

The triangular hill that hung

Under the big forth. They said.

That I was bound by the whitethorn hedges

of the little farm and did not know the world.

But I knew that love’s doorway to life

Is the same doorway everywhere

Ashamed of what i loved

I flung her from me and called her a ditch

Although she was smiling at me with violets.

But now I am back in the briary arms

The dew of an Indian Summer morning lies

on bleached potato- stalks-

what age am i?

I do not know what age i am

I am no mortal age;

I know nothing of woman,

Nothing of Cities.

I cannot die

Unless I walk outside these whitethorn hedges.

By my favourite Irish poet

Patrick Kavanagh.

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