Surely somehow, in some measure XLIV O but my delicate lover XLV Softer than the hill-fog to the forest XLVI I seek and desire XLVII Like torn sea-kelp in the drift XLVIII

When the early sun bronzed the bog, and streaked the dark pool below with gold, Paddy and his father began to feed the dried wavy strands of kelp between the hungry brown furrow lips.

Eight-year-old Michael Mallin drags kelp out of a rush basket and packs it down for fertilizer between the brown ridges of the little hand-spaded field in Donegal.