from RMS Titanic
On the bog road the blackthorn flowers, the turf-stacks,
Chocolate brown, are built like bricks but softer,
And softer too the west of Ireland sky.
Turf smoke is chalked upon the darker blue
And leaves a sweet, rich, poor man's smell in cloth.
Great ragged rhododendrons sprawl through gaps
And pink and white the chestnut blossom tops
The tumbled granite wall round the demesne.
The high, brass-bound De Dion coughing past,
O'Conor Don and the solicitor,
Disturbs the dust but not the sleeping dogs.
Disturb the memories in an old man's head.
We only live one life, with one beginning.
The coming degradations of the heart
We who awake with all our landfalls staring
Back at us in the dawn, must hold our breath for.
The west is not awake to where Titanic
Smokes in the morning, huge against the stars.