Search

Search results

Contemplative, Francis Ledwidge, in English Clear filters

ContemplativeFrancis Ledwidge

At a Poet's Grave

When I leave down this pipe my friend And sleep with flowers I loved, apart, My songs shall rise in wilding things Whose roots are in my heart. And here where that sweet poet sleeps I hear the songs he left unsung, When winds are fluttering the flowers And summer-bells are rung.
ContemplativeFrancis Ledwidge

To a Sparrow

Because you have no fear to mingle Wings with those of greater part, So like me, with song I single Your sweet impudence of heart. And when prouder feathers go where Summer holds her leafy show, You still come to us from nowhere Like grey leaves across the snow. In back ways where odd and end go To your meals you drop down sure, Knowing every broken window Of the hospitable poor. There is no bird half so harmless, None so sweetly rude as you, None so common and so charmless, None of virtues nude as you.
ContemplativeFrancis Ledwidge

By Faughan

For hills and woods and streams unsung I pipe above a rippled cove. And here the weaver autumn hung Between the hills a wind she wove From sounds the hills remember yet Of purple days and violet. The hills stand up to trip the sky, Sea-misted, and along the tops Wing after wing goes summer by, And many a little roadway stops And starts, and struggles to the sea, Cutting them up in filigree. Twixt wind and silence Faughan flows, In music broken over rocks, Like mingled bells the poet knows Ring in the fields of Eastern flocks.
ContemplativeFrancis Ledwidge

To One Weeping

Maiden, these are sacred tears, Let me not disturb your grief! Had I but your bosom's fears I should weep, nor seek relief. My woe is a silent woe 'Til I give it measured rhyme, When the blackbird's flute is low In my heart at singing time.
ContemplativeFrancis Ledwidge

To My Best Friend

I love the wet-lipped wind that stirs the hedge And kisses the bent flowers that drooped for rain, That stirs the poppy on the sun-burned ledge And like a swan dies singing, without pain. The golden bees go buzzing down to stain The lilies' frills, and the blue harebell rings, And the sweet blackbird in the rainbow sings. Deep in the meadows I would sing a song, The shallow brook my tuning-fork, the birds My masters; and the boughs they hop along Shall mark my time: but there shall be no words For lurking Echo's mock; an angel herds Words that I may not know, within, for you, Words for the faithful meet, the good and true.

Describe a feeling — we’ll find a poem

Or try: