LAND The boundary stone, The balk, fence or hedge Says on one side, "I own," On the other "I acknowledge." The small farmer carved His children rations. He died. The heart was halved, Quartered, fragmented, apportioned: To the sons, a share Of what he'd clung to By nature, plod and care -- His land, his antique land-hunger. Many years he ruled, Many a year sons Followed him to oat-field, Pasture, bog, down shaded boreens. Turf, milk, harvest -- he Grew from earth also His own identity Firmed by the seasons' come-and-go. Now at last the sons, Captive though long-fledged, Own what they envied once -- Right men, the neighbours acknowledge. -- C. Day-Lewis, Anglo-Irish Poet Laureate of England