Page:The Complete Poems of Francis Ledwidge, 1919.djvu/104

98 With white teeth biting down the inly pain,

Then sounds of going away and sad farewells.

A year ago! It seems but yesterday.

Yesterday! And a hundred years! All one.

'Tis laid a something finished, dark, away,

To gather mould upon the shelves of Time.

What matters hours or æons when 'tis gone?

And yet the heart will dust it of its grime,

And hover round it in a silver spell,

Be lost in it and cry aloud in fear;

And like a lost soul in a pious ear,

Hammer in mine a never easy bell.