Page:The Complete Poems of Francis Ledwidge, 1919.djvu/241

 TO AN OLD QUILL OF LORD DUNSANY'S

you leave my hands' abuses

To lie where many odd things meet you,

Neglected darkling of the Muses,

I, the last of singers, greet you.

Snug in some white wing they found you,

On the Common bleak and muddy,

Noisy goslings gobbling round you

In the pools of sunset, ruddy.

Have you sighed in wings untravelled

For the heights where others view the

Bluer widths of heaven, and marvelled

At the utmost top of Beauty?

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