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Francis Ledwidge (Фрэнсис Ледвидж)


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,
And from their nest-sills finches whistle
Or stooping pluck the downy thistle.
How is the morn so gay and fair
Without his whistling in its air?
The world is calling, I must go.
How shall I know he did not pass
Barefooted in the shining grass? 



Francis Ledwidge's other poems:
  1. In France
  2. The Call To Ireland
  3. June
  4. Una Bawn
  5. Pan


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