Patrick Kavanagh Poems
|1.||Wet Evening In April||1/3/2003|
|2.||To The Man After The Harrow||1/3/2003|
|3.||The Great Hunger||4/5/2010|
|4.||Stony Grey Soil||1/3/2003|
|8.||On Raglan Road||1/3/2003|
|9.||On An Apple-Ripe September Morning||1/3/2003|
|10.||My Father Played The Melodeon||3/3/2015|
|11.||Memory Of My Father||1/3/2003|
|15.||Inniskeen Road: July Evening||1/3/2003|
|16.||In Memory Of My Mother||1/3/2003|
|17.||Having To Live In The Country||1/3/2003|
|20.||Canal Bank Walk||1/13/2003|
|24.||A Christmas Childhood||12/15/2014|
On Raglan Road
On Raglan Road on an autumn day I met her first and knew
That her dark hair would weave a snare that I might one day rue;
I saw the danger, yet I walked along the enchanted way,
And I said, let grief be a fallen leaf at the dawning of the day.
On Grafton Street in November we tripped lightly along the ledge
Of the deep ravine where can be seen the worth of passion's pledge,
The Queen of Hearts still making tarts and I not making hay -
O I loved too much and by such and such is happiness thrown away.
I gave her gifts of the mind I gave her the secret sign...
My black hills have never seen the sun rising,
Eternally they look north towards Armagh.
Lot's wife would not be salt if she had been
Incurious as my black hills that are happy
When dawn whitens Glassdrummond chapel.
My hills hoard the bright shillings of March
While the sun searches in every pocket.
They are my Alps and I have climbed the Matterhorn