Upon a bank I sat, a child made seer
Of one small primrose flowering in my mind.
Better than wealth it is, said I, to find
One small page of Truth’s manuscript made clear.
I looked at Christ transfigured without fear—
The light was very beautiful and kind,
And where the Holy Ghost in flame had signed
I read it through the lenses of a tear.
And then my sight grew dim, I could not see
The primrose that had lighted me to Heaven,
And there was but a shadow of a tree
Ghostly among the stars. The years that pass
Like tired soldiers nevermore have given
Moments to see wonders in the grass.
Source & further reading: Kavanagh, Patrick. "Primrose." Collected Poems. New York: W. W. Norton, 1964. Print, p. 75. Fitts, Dudley. "Loving Evocation of Irish Life." New York Times, 24 August 1947. Web. Garratt, Robert F., "Patrick Kavanagh and the Killing of the Irish Revival." Colby Library Quarterly, Volume 17, no.3, September 1981. Web.