Francis Ledwidge

(19 August 1887 – 31 July 1917 / Janeville, Slane)

Francis Ledwidge Poems

1. Thoughts At The Trysting Stile 5/11/2012
2. Aarstiderne 8/2/2012
3. The Call To Ireland 5/11/2012
4. The Sylph 4/16/2010
5. With Flowers 4/16/2010
6. The Lanawn Shee 4/16/2010
7. To One Who Comes Now And Then 4/16/2010
8. Una Bawn 4/16/2010
9. Youth 4/16/2010
10. The Find 4/16/2010
11. The Rushes 4/16/2010
12. June 3/27/2012
13. To A Sparrow 4/16/2010
14. The Dead Kings 4/16/2010
15. The Little Children 4/16/2010
16. To An Old Quill Of Lord Dunsany's 4/16/2010
17. Spring Love 4/16/2010
18. Two Songs 4/16/2010
19. At Currabwee 4/16/2010
20. Ceol Sidhe 4/16/2010
21. In A Cafe 4/16/2010
22. Ardan Mór 4/16/2010
23. Dawn 4/16/2010
24. Had I A Golden Pound (After The Irish) 4/16/2010
25. At A Poet's Grave 4/16/2010
26. Autumn 4/16/2010
27. Old Clo 4/16/2010
28. Spring 4/16/2010
29. Ireland 4/16/2010
30. After Court Martial 4/16/2010
31. Lady Fair 4/16/2010
32. A Mother's Song 4/16/2010
33. In France 4/16/2010
34. A Fairy Hunt 4/16/2010
35. The Lost Ones 1/3/2003
36. The Wife Of Llew 1/3/2003
37. Spring And Autumn 1/3/2003
38. Pan 4/16/2010
39. The Shadow People 1/3/2003
40. A Soldier's Grave 4/16/2010
Best Poem of Francis Ledwidge

Soliloquy

When I was young I had a care
Lest I should cheat me of my share
Of that which makes it sweet to strive
For life, and dying still survive,
A name in sunshine written higher
Than lark or poet dare aspire.

But I grew weary doing well.
Besides, 'twas sweeter in that hell,
Down with the loud banditti people
Who robbed the orchards, climbed the steeple
For jackdaws' eyes and made the cock
Crow ere 'twas daylight on the clock.
I was so very bad the neighbours
Spoke of me at their daily labours.

And now I'm drinking wine in France,
The helpless ...

Read the full of Soliloquy

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.

[Hata Bildir]