And sometimes I am sorry when the grass <br />Is growing over the stones in quiet hollows <br />And the cocksfoot leans across the rutted cart-pass <br />That I am not the voice of country fellows <br />Who now are standing by some headland talking <br />Of turnips and potatoes or young corn <br />Of turf banks stripped for victory. <br />Here Peace is still hawking <br />His coloured combs and scarves and beads of horn. <br /> <br />Upon a headland by a whinny hedge <br />A hare sits looking down a leaf-lapped furrow <br />There's an old plough upside-down on a weedy ridge <br />And someone is shouldering home a saddle-harrow. <br />Out of that childhood country what fools climb <br />To fight with tyrants Love and Life and Time? <br /> <br /> <br />Submitted by Andrew Mayers<br /><br />Patrick Kavanagh<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/peace/
