April dusk <br />It is tragic to be a poet now <br />And not a lover <br />Paradised under the mutest bough. <br /> <br />I look through my window and see <br />The ghost of life flitting bat-winged. <br />O I am as old as a sage can even be, <br />O I am as lonely as the first fool kinged. <br /> <br />The horse in his stall turns away <br />From the hay-filled manger, dreaming of grass <br />Soft and cool in hollows. Does he neigh <br />Jealousy-words for John MacGuigan's ass <br />That never was civilised in stall or trace. <br /> <br />An unmusical ploughboy whistles down the lane <br />Not worried at all about the fate of Europe. <br />While I sit here feeling the subtle pain <br />Of one whose Tree of God has been uprooted.<br /><br />Patrick Kavanagh<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/april-dusk/
