Francis Ledwidge Poems
|41.||Lament For Thomas Mcdonagh||1/3/2003|
|42.||A Rainy Day In April||1/3/2003|
|43.||A Soldier's Grave||4/16/2010|
|45.||Behind The Closed Eye||1/3/2003|
|46.||A Little Boy In The Morning||1/3/2003|
|47.||Lament For The Poets: 1916||1/3/2003|
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 ...
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.