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Poem by Francis Ledwidge
The Little Children
Hunger points a bony finger To the workhouse on the hill, But the little children linger While there's flowers to gather still For my sunny window sill. In my hands I take their faces, Smiling to my smiles they run. Would that I could take their places Where the murky bye-ways shun The benedictions of the sun How they laugh and sing returning Lightly on their secret way. While I listen in my yearning Their laughter fills the windy day With gladness, youth and May.
Francis Ledwidge's other poems:
English Poetry. E-mail firstname.lastname@example.org