Page:The Complete Poems of Francis Ledwidge, 1919.djvu/236

 BY FAUGHAN

hills and woods and streams unsung

I pipe above a rippled cove.

And here the weaver autumn hung

Between the hills a wind she wove

From sounds the hills remember yet

Of purple days and violet.

The hills stand up to trip the sky,

Sea-misted, and along the tops

Wing after wing goes summer by,

And many a little roadway stops

And starts, and struggles to the sea,

Cutting them up in filigree.

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