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.
Poem dated: November, 1916.This poem taken from "Last Songs" by Francis Ledwidge, Published by Herbert Jenkins, London 1918 page 32-33checked and verified JS
