Page:The Complete Poems of Francis Ledwidge, 1919.djvu/60

54 Rich gifts as prodigal as winter rain,

Like stepping-stones within a swollen river

The hidden words are sounding in my brain,

Too wild for taming; and I must for ever

Think of the hills upon the wilderness,

And leave the city sunset to your song.

For there I am a stranger like the trees

That sigh upon the traffic all day long.