Page:The Complete Poems of Francis Ledwidge, 1919.djvu/169

 TO EILISH OF THE FAIR HAIR

make my heart a harp to play for you

Love songs within the evening dim of day,

Were it not dumb with ache and with mildew

Of sorrow withered like a flower away.

It hears so many calls from homeland places,

So many sighs from all it will remember,

From the pale roads and woodlands where your face is

Like laughing sunlight running thro' December.

But this it singeth loud above its pain,

To bring the greater ache: whate'er befall

The love that oft-times woke the sweeter strain

Shall turn to you always. And should you call 163