A score of grey ungrowthly stumps stand up
Like an old graveyard in my mind: Dingle, Cooleen,
A shadowed corner of St. Stephen’s Green…
Love is But a Season
Won’t we be rich, my love and I, and please
God we shall not ask for reason’s payment,
The why of heart-breaking strangeness in dreeping hedges
Nor analyse God’s breath in common statement.
Advent