Crumbling between the fingers, under the feet, / Crumbling behind the eyes, / Their world gives way and dies / And something twangs and breaks at the end of the street.

The sunlight in the garden
Hardens and grows cold,
We cannot cage the minute
Within its nets of gold

Our freedom as free lances
advances toward its end;
The earth compels, upon it
Sonnets and birds descend;
And soon my friend
We shall have no time for dances.

Nationalism of the Irish type is often regarded as reactionary. With the World Revolution and the Classless Society waiting for the midwife, why take a torch to the stable to assist at the birth of a puppy? Even if the puppy is pedigree. On this question I am unable to make up my mind.

I am not yet born; O fill me with strength against those who would freeze my humanity.

The sunlight in the gardenHardens and grows cold,We cannot cage the minuteWithin its nets of gold