Page:The Complete Poems of Francis Ledwidge, 1919.djvu/297

Rh Like a poor widow whose late grief

Seeks for relief in lonely byeways,

The moon, companionless and dim,

Took her dull rim through starless highways.

I was too weak with dreams to feel

Enchantment steal with guilt upon me,

She slipped, a flower upon the wind,

And laughed to find how she had won me.

From hill to hill, from land to land,

Her lovely hand is beckoning for me,

I follow on through dangerous zones,

Cross dead men's bones and oceans stormy.

Some day I know she'll wait at last

And lock me fast in white embraces,

And down mysterious ways of love

We two shall move to fairy places.

Belgium,

July, 1917.