Francis Ledwidge Poems
|41.||To One Dead||1/3/2003|
|42.||Lament For Thomas Mcdonagh||1/3/2003|
|43.||A Rainy Day In April||1/3/2003|
|44.||A Little Boy In The Morning||1/3/2003|
|45.||Lament For The Poets: 1916||1/3/2003|
|47.||Behind The Closed Eye||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 Shadow People
Old lame Bridget doesn't hear
Fairy music in the grass
When the gloaming's on the mere
And the shadow people pass:
Never hears their slow grey feet
Coming from the village street
Just beyond the parson's wall,
Where the clover globes are sweet
And the mushroom's parasol