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