And typically I’m sorry when the grass
Is rising over the stones in quiet hollows
And the cocksfoot leans throughout the rutted cart-pass
That I’m not the voice of nation fellows
Who now are standing by some headland speaking
Of turnips and potatoes or younger corn
Of turf banks stripped for victory.
Right here Peace remains to be hawking
His colored combs and scarves and beads of horn.
Upon a headland by a whinny hedge
A hare sits trying down a leaf-lapped furrow
There’s an outdated plough upside-down on a weedy ridge
And somebody is shouldering dwelling a saddle-harrow.
Out of that childhood nation what fools climb
To struggle with tyrants Love and Life and Time?
By Patrick Kavanagh
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