A Little Boy In The Morning

Poem By Francis Ledwidge

He will not come, and still I wait.
He whistles at another gate
Where angels listen. Ah I know
He will not come, yet if I go
How shall I know he did not pass
barefooted in the flowery grass?

The moon leans on one silver horn
Above the silhouettes of morn,
And from their nest-sills finches whistle
Or stooping pluck the downy thistle.
How is the morn so gay and fair
Without his whistling in its air?
The world is calling, I must go.
How shall I know he did not pass
Barefooted in the shining grass?

Comments about A Little Boy In The Morning

The memory of Francis Ledwidge evokes among Irish people a great sadness. He died a young man in the Great War. The serenity and humility of this poem demonstrates clearly our sense of loss not only of a known wonderful person but of a poet who espoused peace and tranquility. The crushing of Ledwidge's life by the Great War is mirrored in the rejection by Irish society of simple, trusted and life-enhancing values, so poignantly depicted here by Ledwidge. The unamed whistling bare-footed boy can easily be seen as a metaphor for the death of simplicity.


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Other poems of LEDWIDGE

In France

THE silence of maternal hills
Is round me in my evening dreams;
And round me music-making rills
And mingling waves of pastoral streams.

Pan

He knows the safe ways and unsafe
And he will lead the lambs to fold,
Gathering them with his merry pipe,
The gentle and the overbold.

At Currabwee

Every night at Currabwee
Little men with leather hats
Mend the boots of Faery
From the tough wings of the bats.

Behind The Closed Eye

I walk the old frequented ways
That wind around the tangled braes,
I live again the sunny days
Ere I the city knew.

Dawn

Quiet miles of golden sky,
And in my heart a sudden flower.
I want to clap my hands and cry

Soliloquy

When I was young I had a care
Lest I should cheat me of my share
Of that which makes it sweet to strive
For life, and dying still survive,