Francis Ledwidge

Francis Ledwidge

1,000 карма
United Kingdom (Great Britain)

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AS I was climbing Ardan Mór From the shore of Sheelin lake, I met the herons coming down Before the water’s wake
And they were talking in their flight Of dreamy ways the herons go When all the hills are withered up Nor any waters flow
...
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Maiden-poet, come with
To the heaped up cairn of Maeve,
And there we'll dance a fairy
Upon a fairy's grave
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Kiss the maid and pass her round,
Lips like hers were made for many
Our loves are far from us to-night,
But these red lips are sweet as any
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Lady fair, have we not
In our lives elsewhere
Darkling in my mind
Faint fair faces
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Had I a golden pound to spend,
My love should mend and sew no more
And I would buy her a little quern,
Easy to turn on the kitchen floor
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HE silence of maternal hills Is round me in my evening dreams;
And round me music-making rills And mingling waves of pastoral streams
Whatever way I turn I find The path is old unto me still
The hills of home are in my mind,
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The silence of maternal
Is round me in my evening dreams ;
And round me music-making
And mingling waves of pastoral streams
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