Fall 1966 • Vol. XXVIII No. 4 PoetrySeptember 1, 1966 |

Riversdale. 1965. A Centenary Tribute

I Often I thought, only a stone's throwFrom him at Riversdale, of that old manStill seeking his perfection, still in the throesOf verse, yet every word at his command,Or wheeled along the garden in a Bath chair,Wild with impatience for a better coupletTo link divided rhyme. But I was charyOf seeing that house, his study, the bedroom wallOn which he knocked at morning for his cupOf tea—hedge-walking tramp with empty wallet,Stories of the Great Cholera, bedraggled,Woeful as Raftery beneath the raggedThorn. Donkeying the little roads of Sligo,Had he not seen them in childhood, the wry-necked, the sly goPast, later heard in the sitting room at CooleOf spells that twitched the muslin from the cooler,Bewitched the cream? He told us of rapscallionsWho had swiven too quickly, never given a rap,When Crazy Jane dirtied her petticoat,Respectable journeymen who bedded a coatBeneath her in a dyke, poor Tom at CruahaneDancing in glee when miles of daylight crewWith genderings, best in the op

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A Bravery

By Roger Hecht

I Often I thought, only a stone's throwFrom him at Riversdale, of that old manStill seeking his perfection, still in the throesOf verse, yet every word at his command,Or wheeled […]

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