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