Poetry Friday
Ascetic
That in the end
I may find
Something not sold for a penny
In the slums of Mind.
That I may break
With these hands
The bread that wisdom grows
In the other lands.
For this, for this
I do wear
The rags of hunger and climb
The unending stair.
To a Blackbird
O pagan poet you
And I are one
In this we lose our god
-at the set of the sun.
We dream while earth's sad children
Go slowly by
Pleading for our conversion
With the Most High.
-- Patrick Kavanagh
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