This was the day, in 1967, that Patrick Kavanagh died. Kavanagh quit school at 13 to be, with his father, a farmer and a cobbler. But Kavanagh also wrote poems, and when he'd had enough, he quit the farm and walked to Dublin and wrote more poems and drank a good bit and blathered himself into trouble and got lung cancer and got rid of it and found peace and married and died. He is buried where he was born, and is now a local industry.
There are two kinds of simplicity, the simplicity of going away and the simplicity of return. The last is the ultimate in sophistication. In the final simplicity we don't care whether we appear foolish or not. We talk of things that earlier would embarrass. We are satisfied with being ourselves, however small.
And he wrote 'Come Dance with Kitty Stobling':
No, no, no, I know I was not important as I moved
Through this colourful country, I was but a single
Item in the picture, the namer not the beloved.
O tedious man with whom no gods commingle.
Beauty, who has described beauty? Once upon a time
I had a myth that was a lie but it served:
Trees walking across the crests of hills and my rhyme
Cavorting on mile-high stilts and the unnerved
Crowds looking up with terror in their rational faces.
O dance with Kitty Stobling I outrageously
Cried out-of-sense to them, while their timorous paces
Stumbled behind Jove's page boy paging me.
I had a very pleasant journey, thank you sincerely
For giving me my madness back, or nearly.