Ireland by Francis Ledwidge


I called you by sweet names by wood and linn,

You answered not because my voice was new,

And you were listening for the thousands of Finn

and the long hosts of Lugh.

And so, I came to a windy height

And cried my sorrow, but you heard no wind,

For you were listening to small ships in flight,

And the wall on the hills behind.

And then you called us from far and near

To bring your crown from the deeps of time,

It is my grief your voice I couldn’t hear

In such a distant clime

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