Spring 1948 • Vol. X No. 2 A Group of Irish Poems |

The Snare

He stoops above the clumsy snare To take the night's yet living loot, When the world creature kicking there Beside the thorn-tree's tennelled root, Flings up red soil into his eyes— And suddenly the April skies Are loud with pain of man and brute, Until he lifts a clabbered boot And stamps red life into the sod, And silence takes the fields again— The old deceptive peace of God!

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Dublin Made Me

By Donagh MacDonagh

He stoops above the clumsy snare To take the night's yet living loot, When the world creature kicking there Beside the thorn-tree's tennelled root, Flings up red soil into his […]

The Dog

By Valentin Iremonger

He stoops above the clumsy snare To take the night's yet living loot, When the world creature kicking there Beside the thorn-tree's tennelled root, Flings up red soil into his […]

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