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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=476429" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Peace</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=476429" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">And sometimes I am sorry when the grass<br>Is growing over the stones in quiet hollows<br>And the cocksfoot leans across the rutted cart-pass<br>That I am not the voice of country fellows<br>Who now are standing by some headland talking<br>Of turnips and potatoes or young corn<br>Of turf banks stripped for victory.<br>Here Peace is still hawking <br>His coloured combs and scarves and beads of horn.</a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=476429" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">Upon a headland by a whinny hedge <br>A hare sits looking down a leaf-lapped furrow<br>There's an old plough upside-down on a weedy ridge<br>And someone is shouldering home a saddle-harrow.<br>Out of that childhood country what fools climb<br>To fight with tyrants Love and Life and Time?</a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=476429" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><br>Submitted by Andrew Mayers</a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><a href="http://poems.citatepedia.com/">poem</a> by <strong><a rel="author" href="http://authors.citatepedia.com/by.php?a=Patrick+Kavanagh">Patrick Kavanagh</a></strong></div>

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