Page:The Complete Poems of Francis Ledwidge, 1919.djvu/72

66 And rests awhile upon the dewy slope

Where I will hope again the old, old hope.

With wandering we are worn my muse and I,

And, if I sing, my song knows nought of mirth.

I often think my soul is an old lie

In sackcloth, it repents so much of birth.

But I will build it yet a cloister home

Near the peace of lakes when I have ceased to roam.