Page:The Complete Poems of Francis Ledwidge, 1919.djvu/42

 A TWILIGHT IN MIDDLE MARCH

the oak a throb of pigeon wings

Fell silent, and grey twilight hushed the fold,

And spiders' hammocks swung on half-oped things

That shook like foreigners upon our cold.

A gipsy lit a fire and made a sound

Of moving tins, and from an oblong moon

The river seemed to gush across the ground

To the cracked metre of a marching tune.

And then three syllables of melody

Dropped from a blackbird's flute, and died apart

Far in the dewy dark. No more but three, 36