It's Spring, It's Irish, It's Seamus Heaney

"Rite of Spring"

So winter closed its fist
And got it stuck in the pump.
The plunger froze up a lump

In its throat, ice founding itself
Upon iron. The handle
Paralysed at an angle.

Then the twisting of the wheat straw
Into ropes, lapping them tight
Round stem and snout, then a light

That sent the pump up in a flame.
It cooled, we lifted her latch.
Her entrance was wet, and she came.


Seamus Heaney
from Door Into the Dark