There he was, eight long years after the whipped-off sheet and the broken chair. Daddo. Phil spoke about bluebells, the difference of the American woods to the spongy bogs of Offaly, and how he missed the wren here, he missed the smallness of Irish birds, and the wren especially who was the king of them all. He mentioned courting his wife, who had walked with him though bluebell woods when he was a young man. She was from Dublin and unfamiliar with the countryside, and that, in a way, was what his early poetry was for. It was his gift to her. A posy. No, What was the word? A nosegay. They
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