Page:The Complete Poems of Francis Ledwidge, 1919.djvu/138

132 And we are changing with the hours that fly,

And growing odd and old, my heart and I.

Across a bed of bells the river flows,

And roses dawn, but not for us; we want

The new thing ever as the old thing grows

Spectral and weary on the hills we haunt.

And that is why we feast, and that is why

We're growing odd and old, my heart and I.