Page:The Complete Poems of Francis Ledwidge, 1919.djvu/249

 THE LITTLE CHILDREN

points a bony finger

To the workhouse on the hill,

But the little children linger

While there's flowers to gather still

For my sunny window sill.

In my hands I take their faces,

Smiling to my smiles they run.

Would that I could take their places

Where the murky bye-ways shun

The benedictions of the sun.

How they laugh and sing returning

Lightly on their secret way. 243