On Reading Francis Ledwidge’S Last Songs

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.