1 min read
Слушать(AI)Thomas McDonagh
He shall not hear the bittern cry In the wild sky, where he is lain,
Nor voices of the sweeter birds,
Above the wailing of the rain.
Nor shall he know when loud March blows Thro' slanting snows her fanfare shrill,
Blowing to flame the golden cup Of many an upset daffodil.
But when the Dark Cow leaves the moor And pastures poor with greedy weeds Perhaps he'll hear her low at morn Lifting her horn in pleasant meads.
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
Comments
You need to be signed in to write comments
Other author posts
Una Bawn
Una Bawn, the days are long, And the seas I cross are wide, I must go when Ireland needs, And you must bide
Spring Love
I saw her coming through the flowery grass, Round her swift ankles butterfly and Blent loud and silent wings ; I saw her
Pan
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
The Rushes
The rushes nod by the As the winds on the loud waves go, And the things they nod of are many, For it's many the secret they know