Francis Ledwidge

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

Comments about Francis Ledwidge

  • Kelly (2/17/2019 3:15:00 PM)

    I just discovered this gentleman. " Soliloquy" particularly touches me. His intuition—maybe anxiety—is astounding, especially in that his almost premonitory poems bespeak his demise.

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  • Caitlin (10/12/2018 6:55:00 AM)

    I think that Francis Ledwidge was very interesting and i think that he had a hard childhood. His poems are very passionate.

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  • Thomas (5/3/2018 7:54:00 AM)

    Last week, I visited his monument in Belgium. It gave me goosebumps. Than I went home and had with my wife while she was drinking Nesquick chocolate milk. But after all he ain't too bad. Some poems are pretty and others are gruell. Next week I go to London, to go to the hookers. because my wife doens't give good succ.

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  • Amy Elliott (2/4/2018 6:39:00 AM)

    Good poet
    I'm currently learning about him

    5 person liked.
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  • Dave Keech (12/15/2017 7:16:00 AM)

    Brilliant poet and true Irish patriot.

    R.I.P Francis

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  • Alan Matthews (8/17/2017 11:26:00 AM)

    Francis Ledwidge's submissions to the Drogheda Independent were, at the time, also being printed submission by submission in staves with the intention of publishing a book when the series ended. The series ended abruptly and the staves were put in to storage and ended up being dumped in 1976. One of the staves was saved and the book has finally been published in 2017 entitled Legends and Stories of the Boyne Side by Francis E. Ledwidge. available at www.ledwidgelostlegends.ie. more information is also available on facebook at thelostledwidge

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  • Charles Zult (3/1/2016 12:18:00 AM)

    Nice

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Best Poem of Francis Ledwidge

A Little Boy In The Morning

He will not come, and still I wait.
He whistles at another gate
Where angels listen. Ah I know
He will not come, yet if I go
How shall I know he did not pass
barefooted in the flowery grass?

The moon leans on one silver horn
Above the silhouettes of morn,
And from their nest-sills finches whistle
Or stooping pluck the downy thistle.
How is the morn so gay and fair
Without his whistling in its air?
The world is calling, I must go.
How shall I know he did not pass
Barefooted in the shining grass?

Read the full of A Little Boy In The Morning

The Wife Of Llew

And Gwydion said to Math, when it was Spring:
"Come now and let us make a wife for Llew."
And so they broke broad boughs yet moist with dew,
And in a shadow made a magic ring:
They took the violet and the meadow-sweet
To form her pretty face, and for her feet
They built a mound of daisies on a wing,
And for her voice they made a linnet sing
In the wide poppy blowing for her mouth.