The wind blew all my wedding—day,
And my wedding—night was the night
And a stable door was banging, aga
That he must go and shut it, leavi
Stupid in candlelight, hearing rai

Higher than the handsomest hotel
The lucent comb shows up for miles
All round it close—ribbed streets
Like a great sigh out of the last
The porters are scruffy; what keep

Always too eager for the future, w
Pick up bad habits of expectancy.
Something is always approaching; e
Till then we say,
Watching from a bluff the tiny, cl

Those long uneven lines
Standing as patiently
As if they were stretched outside
The Oval or Villa Park,
The crowns of hats, the sun

Obedient daily dress,
You cannot always keep
That unfakable young surface.
You must learn your lines —
Anger, amusement, sleep;

Lonely in Ireland, since it was n
Strangeness made sense. The salt
Insisting so on difference, made m
Once that was recognised, we were
Their draughty streets, end—on to

Home is so sad. It stays as it wa
Shaped in the comfort of the last
As if to win them back. Instead,
Of anyone to please, it withers so
Having no heart to put aside the t

About twenty years ago
Two girls came in where I worked—
A bosomy English rose
And her friend in specs I could t
Faces in those days sparked

Is it for now or for always,
The world hangs on a stalk?
Is it a trick or a trysting—place,
The woods we have found to walk?
Is it a mirage or miracle,

‘This was Mr Bleaney’s room. He
The whole time he was at the Bodi
They moved him.’ Flowered curtain
Fall to within five inches of the
Whose window shows a strip of buil