Francis Ledwidge (19 August 1887 – 31 July 1917 / Janeville, Slane)
At A Poet's Grave
When I leave down this pipe my friend
And sleep with flowers I loved, apart,
My songs shall rise in wilding things
Whose roots are in my heart.
And here where that sweet poet sleeps
I hear the songs he left unsung,
When winds are fluttering the flowers
And summer-bells are rung.
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