Page:The Complete Poems of Francis Ledwidge, 1919.djvu/85

Rh Fed on the water moths. A marsh hen crossed

On flying wings and swimming feet to where

Her mate was in the rushes forest, tossed

On the heaving dusk like swallows in the air.

Beyond the river a walled rood of graves

Hung dead with all its hemlock wan and sere,

Save where the wall was broken and long waves

Of yellow grass flowed outward like a weir,

As if the dead were striving for more room

And their old places in the scheme of things;

For sometimes the thought comes that the brown tomb

Is not the end of all our labourings,

But we are born once more of wind and rain,

To sow the world with harvest young and strong,