BEHIND THE CLOSED EYE - Francis Ledwidge Poems


Poems » francis ledwidge » behind the closed eye


I walk the old frequented ways
   That wind around the tangled braes,
I live again the sunny days
   Ere I the city knew.

And scenes of old again are born,
   The woodbine lassoing the thorn,
And drooping Ruth-like in the corn
   The poppies weep the dew.

Above me in their hundred schools
   The magpies bend their young to rules,
And like an apron full of jewels
   The dewy cobweb swings.

And frisking in the stream below
   The troutlets make the circles flow,
And the hungry crane doth watch them grow
   As a smoker does his rings.

Above me smokes the little town,
   With its whitewashed walls and roofs of brown
And its octagon spire toned smoothly down
   As the holy minds within.

And wondrous impudently sweet,
   Half of him passion, half conceit,
The blackbird calls adown the street
   Like the piper of Hamelin.

I hear him, and I feel the lure
   Drawing me back to the homely moor,
I'll go and close the mountain's door
   On the city's strife and din.