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 -new-||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|
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