At A Poet's Grave

When I leave down this pipe my friend

And sleep with flowers I loved, apart,

My songs shall rise in wilding things

Whose roots are in my heart.

And here where that sweet poet sleeps

I hear the songs he left unsung,

When winds are fluttering the flowers

And summer-bells are rung.

Poem dated: November, 1916.This poem taken from "Last Songs" by Francis Ledwidge, Published by Herbert Jenkins, London 1918 page 32-33checked and verified JS