Page:The Complete Poems of Francis Ledwidge, 1919.djvu/221

 THE LURE

night leave her halos down

On Mitylene's dark mountain isle,

The silhouette of one fair town

Like broken shadows in a pile.

And in the farther dawn I heard

The music of a foreign bird.

In fields of shady angles now

I stand and dream in the half dark:

The thrush is on the blossomed bough,

Above the echoes sings the lark,

And little rivers drop between

Hills fairer than dark Mitylene.

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