16 SEPTEMBER 1938, Page 21

PLOUGHMAN IN these small fields I have known the delight

Of being reborn each morning And dying each night.

And I can tell That birth and death Are nothing so fierce As the preacher saith.

For when a life's but a day The womb and tomb Press lips in fondness Like bride and groom.

And when a man's a ploughman As I am now An age is a furrow And Time a plough, And Infinity a field That cannot stretch Over the drain Or through the ditch.

. . PATRICK KAVANAGH,