poetry

[noctyourking]

The Dead Kings Francis Ledwidge All the dead kings came to me At Rosnaree, where I was dreaming, A few stars glimmered through the morn, And down the thorn the dews were streaming. And every dead king had a story Of ancient glory, sweetly told. It was too early for the lark, But the starry dark had tints of gold. I listened to the sorrows three Of that Eire passed into song. A cock crowed near a hazel croft, And up aloft dim larks winged strong. And I, too, told the kings a story Of later glory, her fourth sorrow: There was a sound like moving shields In high green fields and the lowland furrow. And one said: ‘We who yet are kings Have heard these things lamenting inly.’ Sweet music flowed from many a bill And on the hill the morn stood queenly. And one said: ‘Over is the singing, And bell bough ringing, whence we come; With heavy hearts we’ll tread the shadows, In honey meadows birds are dumb.’ And one said: ‘Since the poets perished And all they cherished in the way, Their thoughts unsung, like petal showers Inflame the hours of blue and grey.’ And one said: ‘A loud tramp of men We’ll hear again at Rosnaree.’ A bomb burst near me where I lay. I woke, ’twas day in Picardy.