ON READING FRANCIS LEDWIDGE’ S LAST SONGS

By John Drinkwater

At April’ s end, when blossoms break

To birth upon my apple-tree,

I know the certain year will take

Full harvest of this infancy.

At April’ s end, when comes the dear

Occasion of your valley tune,

I know your beauty’ s arc is here,

A little ghostly morning moon.

Yet are these fosterlings of rhyme

As fortunately born to spend

Happy conspiracies with time

As apple flowers at April’ s end.