There's a wind blowing <br />Cold through the corridors, <br />A ghost-wind, <br />The flapping of defeated wings, <br />A hell-fantasy <br />From meadows damned <br />To eternal April <br /> <br />And listening, listening <br />To the wind <br />I hear <br />The throat-rattle of dying men, <br />From whose ears oozes <br />Foamy blood, <br />Throttled in a brothel. <br /> <br />I see brightly <br />In the wind vacancies <br />Saint Thomas Aquinas <br />And <br />Poetry blossoms <br />Excitingly <br />As the first flower of truth.<br /><br />Patrick Kavanagh<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/march-28/
