Francis Ledwidge

(19 August 1887 – 31 July 1917 / Janeville, Slane)

Francis Ledwidge Poems

1. At Currabwee 4/16/2010
2. Thoughts At The Trysting Stile 5/11/2012
3. Aarstiderne 8/2/2012
4. The Sylph 4/16/2010
5. To An Old Quill Of Lord Dunsany's 4/16/2010
6. Two Songs 4/16/2010
7. With Flowers 4/16/2010
8. Youth 4/16/2010
9. Dawn 4/16/2010
10. In A Cafe 4/16/2010
11. Old Clo 4/16/2010
12. The Lanawn Shee 4/16/2010
13. Had I A Golden Pound (After The Irish) 4/16/2010
14. Ardan Mór 4/16/2010
15. Una Bawn 4/16/2010
16. To One Who Comes Now And Then 4/16/2010
17. The Rushes 4/16/2010
18. Ceol Sidhe 4/16/2010
19. The Find 4/16/2010
20. Autumn 4/16/2010
21. June 3/27/2012
22. After Court Martial 4/16/2010
23. The Little Children 4/16/2010
24. The Dead Kings 4/16/2010
25. Pan 4/16/2010
26. Lady Fair 4/16/2010
27. To A Sparrow 4/16/2010
28. At A Poet's Grave 4/16/2010
29. The Wife Of Llew 1/3/2003
30. Spring 4/16/2010
31. Spring And Autumn 1/3/2003
32. The Lost Ones 1/3/2003
33. A Fairy Hunt 4/16/2010
34. Ireland 4/16/2010
35. A Mother's Song 4/16/2010
36. The Shadow People 1/3/2003
37. Spring Love 4/16/2010
38. In France 4/16/2010
39. Behind The Closed Eye 1/3/2003
40. Lament For The Poets: 1916 1/3/2003
Best Poem of Francis Ledwidge

Soliloquy

When I was young I had a care
Lest I should cheat me of my share
Of that which makes it sweet to strive
For life, and dying still survive,
A name in sunshine written higher
Than lark or poet dare aspire.

But I grew weary doing well.
Besides, 'twas sweeter in that hell,
Down with the loud banditti people
Who robbed the orchards, climbed the steeple
For jackdaws' eyes and made the cock
Crow ere 'twas daylight on the clock.
I was so very bad the neighbours
Spoke of me at their daily labours.

And now I'm drinking wine in France,
The helpless ...

Read the full of Soliloquy

Behind The Closed Eye

I walk the old frequented ways
That wind around the tangled braes,
I live again the sunny days
Ere I the city knew.

And scenes of old again are born,
The woodbine lassoing the thorn,
And drooping Ruth-like in the corn
The poppies weep the dew.

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