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Poem by Francis Ledwidge
Thoughts at the Trysting Stile
Come, May, and hang a white flag on each thorn, Make truce with earth and heaven; the April child Now hides her sulky face deep in the morn Of your new flowers by the water wild And in the ripples of the rising grass, And rushes bent to let the south wind pass On with her tumult of swift nomad wings, And broken domes of downy dandelion. Only in spasms now the blackbird sings. The hour is all a-dream. Nets of woodbine Throw woven shadows over dreaming flowers, And dreaming, a bee-luring lily bends Its tender bell where blue dyke-water cowers Thro' briars and folded ferns, and gripping ends Of wild convolvulus. The lark's sky-way Is desolate. I watch an apple-spray Beckon across a wall as if it knew I wait the calling of the orchard maid. Inly I fell she will come in blue, With yellow on her hair, and two curls strayed Out of her comb's loose stocks, and I shall steal Behind and lay my hands upon her eyes, 'Look not, but be my Psyche! ' And her peal Of laughter will ring far, and as she tries For freedom I will call her names of flowers That climb up walls; then thro' the twilight hours We'll talk about the loves of ancient queens, And kisses like wasp-honey, false and sweet, And how we are entangled in love's snares Like wind-looped flowers.
Francis Ledwidge's other poems:
English Poetry. E-mail firstname.lastname@example.org