Page:The Complete Poems of Francis Ledwidge, 1919.djvu/67

 THE HILLS

hills are crying from the fields to me,

And calling me with music from a choir

Of waters in their woods where I can see

The bloom unfolded on the whins like fire.

And, as the evening moon climbs ever higher

And blots away the shadows from the slope,

They cry to me like things devoid of hope.

Pigeons are home. Day droops. The fields are cold.

Now a slow wind comes labouring up the sky

With a small cloud long steeped in sunset gold,

Like Jason with the precious fleece anigh

The harbour of Iolcos. Day's bright eye 61