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On An Apple-Ripe September Morning

On an apple-ripe September

Through the mist-chill fields I

With a pitch-fork on my

Less for use than for devilment.

The threshing mill was set-up,

I knew,

In Cassidy's haggard last night,

And we owed them a day at the

Since last year.

O it was

To be paying bills of

And chaffy gossip in

With work thrown in to

The fantasy-soaring mind.

As I crossed the wooden bridge I

As I looked into the

If ever a summer morning should find

Shovelling up eels again.

And  I thought of the wasps' nest in the

And how I got chased one

Leaving the drag and the scraw-knife behind,

How I covered my face with hay.

The wet leaves of the

Polished my boots as

Went round by the glistening

Lost in unthinking joy.

I'll be carrying bags to-day,

I mused,

The best job at the

With plenty of time to talk of our

As we wait for the bags to fill.

Maybe Mary might call round…And then I came to the haggard gate,

And I knew as I entered that I had

Through fields that were part of no earthly estate.

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Patrick Kavanagh

Patrick Kavanagh (21 October 1904 – 30 November 1967) was an Irish poet and novelist. His best-known works include the novel Tarry Flynn, and th…

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