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Слушать(AI)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.
A blackbird singing I hear in my troubled mind,
Bluebells swinging,
I see in a distant wind.
But sorrow and silence,
Are the wood's threnody,
The silence for you and the sorrow for me.
Francis Ledwidge
Francis Edward Ledwidge (19 August 1887 – 31 July 1917) was an Irish war poet and soldier from County Meath.[1] Sometimes known as the "poet of
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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
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He knows the safe ways and And he will lead the lambs to fold, Gathering them with his merry pipe, The gentle and the overbold
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Once more the lark with song and Cleaves through the dawn, his hurried bars^; Fall, like the flute of Twirling and whistling from the stars
To An Old Quill Of Lord Dunsanys
Before you leave my hands' To lie where many odd things meet you, Neglected darkling of the Muses, I, the last of singers, greet you
