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To One Dead

To One Dead

A blackbird singing

On a moss-upholstered stone,

Bluebells swinging,

Shadows wildly blown,

A song in the wood,

A ship on the sea.

The song was for you

and the ship was for me.

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by Francis Ledwidge

The Shadow People

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

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by Francis Ledwidge

Behind the Closed Eye

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.

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by Francis Ledwidge

The Lost Ones

The Lost Ones

Somewhere is music from the linnets' bills,

And thro' the sunny flowers the bee-wings drone,

And white bells of convolvulus on hills

Of quiet May make silent ringing, blown

Hither and thither by the wind of showers,

And somewhere all the wandering birds have flown;

And the brown breath of Autumn chills the flowers.

But where are all the loves of long ago?

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by Francis Ledwidge

Spring and Autumn

Spring and Autumn

Green ripples singing down the corn,

With blossoms dumb the path I tread,

And in the music of the morn

One with wild roses on her head.

Now the green ripples turn to gold

And all the paths are loud with rain,

I with desire am growing old

And full of winter pain.

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by Francis Ledwidge

A Rainy Day in April

A Rainy Day in April

When the clouds shake their hyssops, and the rain

Like holy water falls upon the plain,

'Tis sweet to gaze upon the springing grain

And see your harvest born.

And sweet the little breeze of melody

The blackbord puffs upon teh budding tree,

While the wild poppy lights upon the lea

And blazes 'mid the corn.

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by Francis Ledwidge

Thomas McDonagh

Thomas McDonagh

He shall not hear the bittern cry

In the wild sky, where he is lain,

Nor voices of the sweeter birds,

Above the wailing of the rain.

Nor shall he know when loud March blows

Thro' slanting snows her fanfare shrill,

Blowing to flame the golden cup

Of many an upset daffodil.

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by Francis Ledwidge

Lament for the Poets: 1916

Lament for the Poets: 1916

I heard the Poor Old Woman say:

"At break of day the fowler came,

And took my blackbirds from their songs

Who loved me well thro' shame and blame

No more from lovely distances

Their songs shall bless me mile by mile,

Nor to white Ashbourne call me down

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by Francis Ledwidge

My Mother

My Mother

God made my mother on an April day,

From sorrow and the mist along the sea,

Lost birds' and wanderers' songs and ocean spray,

And the moon loved her wandering jealously.

Beside the ocean's din she combed her hair,

Singing the nocturne of the passing ships,

Before her earthly lover found her there

And kissed away the music from her lips.

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by Francis Ledwidge

A Little Boy in the Morning

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,

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by Francis Ledwidge

Soliloquy

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,

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by Francis Ledwidge