Poem by Francis Ledwidge

The Little Children

Hunger points a bony finger
To the workhouse on the hill,
But the little children linger
While there's flowers to gather still
For my sunny window sill.

In my hands I take their faces,
Smiling to my smiles they run.
Would that I could take their places
Where the murky bye-ways shun
The benedictions of the sun

How they laugh and sing returning
Lightly on their secret way.
While I listen in my yearning
Their laughter fills the windy day
With gladness, youth and May. 

1. At Currabwee
2. Spring and Autumn
3. To a Sparrow
4. After Court Martial
5. Behind the Closed Eye

Print

1202 Views

Last Poems

To Russian version