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Poem by Francis Ledwidge


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


Francis Ledwidge's other poems:
  1. At Currabwee
  2. Old Clo
  3. Spring and Autumn
  4. Thoughts at the Trysting Stile
  5. Lament for Thomas Mcdonagh


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