Poem by Francis Ledwidge

Ireland

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 Finn
And the long hosts of Lugh.

And so, I came unto a windy height
And cried my sorrow, but you heard no wind,
For you were listening to small ships in flight,
And the wail on hills behind.

And then I left you, wandering the war
Armed with will, from distant goal to goal,
To find you at the last free as of yore,
Or die to save your soul.

And then you called to us from far and near
To bring your crown from out the deeps of time,
It is my grief your voice I couldn't hear
In such a distant clime. 

1. At Currabwee
2. Spring and Autumn
3. After Court Martial
4. To a Sparrow
5. Behind the Closed Eye

Dora Sigerson Shorter Ireland ("'Twas the dream of a God")

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