Like oil lamps we put them out the back, <br /> <br />of our houses, of our minds. We had lights <br />better than, newer than, and then <br /> <br />a time came, this time and now <br />we need them. Their dread makeshift example. <br /> <br />They would have thrived on our necessities. <br />What they survived we could not even live. <br /> <br />By their lights now it is time to <br />imagine how they stood there, what they stood with, <br />that their possessions may become our power. <br /> <br />Cardboard. Iron. Their hardships parceled in them. <br />Patience. Fortitude. Long-suffering <br />in the bruise-colored dusk of the New World. <br /> <br />And all the old songs. And nothing to lose. <br /> <br /> <br />Eavan Boland<br /><br />Eavan Aisling Boland<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-emigrant-irish/
