Francis Ledwidge (Фрэнсис Ледвидж)

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. The Dead Kings
2. Ceol Sidhe
3. Old Clo
4. Spring and Autumn
5. Lament for Thomas Mcdonagh

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Количество обращений к стихотворению: 1880

Последние стихотворения

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