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  <node>
    <title>Boyd119</title>
    <Collections>Boyd Letters</Collections>
    <Contributor>Boyd Estate</Contributor>
    <Coverage>19 Jan</Coverage>
    <Creator>Linen Hall Library</Creator>
    <Date>Wednesday, March 16, 2016</Date>
    <Format>TIFF</Format>
    <Identifier>Boyd119</Identifier>
    <ItemDescription>Letter</ItemDescription>
    <Keywords>Heaney, Poets</Keywords>
    <Language>English</Language>
    <Path>https://www.niliteraryarchive.com/content/boyd119</Path>
    <Publisher>Linen Hall Library</Publisher>
    <Relation>Linen Hall Library</Relation>
    <Rights>Attribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike CC BY-NC-SA</Rights>
    <Scannedimage>https://www.niliteraryarchive.com/sites/default/files/Boyd119_1.jpg</Scannedimage>
    <Source>LHL Archive</Source>
    <Transcript>﻿2

Now as news comes in
of each neighbourly murder
we pine for ceremony,
customary rhythms:
the temperate footsteps
of a cortege, winding past
each blinded home ...

Those lines are from a poem called
Funeral Rites in Seamus Heaney&#039;s
latest volume North. I quote them
because there is more sense, insight, and
solace, in xxpoets than in xxpublic
figures. Heaney&#039;s xxxxxvoice
resonates more than Paisley&#039;s and will
continue to resonate when that cleric is long forgotten. In the end, poetry -
xxxxxxxxmemorable speech - endures.xxxxxxxx
And we have many poets - Heaney, Hewitt,
McFadden, Montague, Kinsella, Deane,Simmon,
Longley,Fiacc, Muldoon, Mahon - and
xxxx xxxxxxx xxwhat they are
</Transcript>
    <Type>Text</Type>
  </node>
</>
