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Surrounded by beech trees Overlooked by a church spire The grave of him whose shadow Lies on all of us. Looking at The tombstone the constant Thought comes back: Rich past, bare present. He took his themes to the grave: The myths in our art, The great of our nation and The doubtful struggle for freedom. Our times in Ireland are not tragic: Poverty, famine, persecution Are not our worry now. In wealth we have the final irony: The triumph of blandness. The nation recedes, the view widens. The outlook for us all is today’s concern. We have squandered what was there to protect. Our surroundings have been strained And now wreak a slow revenge On presumptuous humans. |
