At A Poet's Grave
When I leave down this pipe my friend
And sleep with flowers I loved, apart,
My songs shall rise in wilding things
Whose roots are in my heart.
And here where that sweet poet sleeps
I hear the songs he left unsung,
When winds are fluttering the flowers
And summer-bells are rung.
poem by Francis Ledwidge
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!
No comments until now.