When you come in, it seems a brighter
Crackles upon the hearth invitingly,
The household routine which was wont to tire ,
Grows full of novelty.
You sit upon our home-upholstered
And talk of matters wonderful and strange,
Of books, and travel, customs old which
The gods of Time and Change.
Till we with inner word our care
Laughing that this our bosoms yet assails,
While there are maidens dancing to a
In Andalusian vales.
And sometimes from my shelf of poems you
And secret meanings to our hearts disclose,
As when the winds of June the mid bush
We see the hidden rose.
And when the shadows muster, and each treeA moment flutters, full of shutting wings,
You take the fiddle and
Wake wonders on the strings.
And in my garden, grey with misty flowers,
Low echoes fainter than a beetle's
Fill all the corners with it, like sweet
Of bells, in the owl's morn.
Come often, friend, with welcome and
We'll greet you from the sea or from the town;
Come when you like and from whatever
Above you smile or frown.
This poem taken from "Last Songs" by Francis Ledwidge,
Published by Herbert Jenkins,
London 1918 [page 67-69]Poem Dated: Belgium,
July 22nd, 1917.
Words and spelling verified JS
