Francis Ledwidge

Francis Ledwidge

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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 the blackbirds", he was killed in action at the Battle of Passchendaele during World War I.
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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
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The Lost Ones

Somewhere is music from the linnets' bills,
And thro' the sunny flowers the bee-wings drone,
And white bells of convolvulus on hills Of quiet May make silent ringing, blown Hither and thither by the wind of showers,
And somewhere al...
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The Wife of Llew

And Gwydion said to Math, when it was Spring: "Come now and let us make a wife for Llew
" And so they broke broad boughs yet moist with dew,
And in a shadow made a magic ring:
They took the violet and the meadow-sweet To f...
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Two Songs

I will come no more awhile,
Song-time is over
A fire is burning in my heart,
I was ever a rover
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Ardan Mór

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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The Lanawn Shee

Powdered and perfumed the full
Winged heavily across the clover,
And where the hills were dim with dew,
Purple and blue the west leaned over
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I called you by sweet names by wood and linn,
You answered not because my voice was new,
And you were listening for the hounds of
And the long hosts of Lugh
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In A Cafe

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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The Find

I took a reed and blew a tune,
And sweet it was and very
To be about a little
That only few hold dear
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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
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Had I A Golden Pound After The Irish

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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My Mother

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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To One Dead

A blackbird singing On a moss-upholstered stone,
Bluebells swinging,
Shadows wildly blown,
A song in the wood,
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Spring Love

I saw her coming through the flowery grass,
Round her swift ankles butterfly and
Blent loud and silent wings ;
I saw her
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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,
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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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