Little boy in the Morning
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
Barefoot in the flowery grass

The moon leans on one silver horn
Above the silhouette of morn
And from their nest sills finches whistle
Or stooping pluck the downey thistle

How is the morn so gay and fair
Whitout 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

FRANCIS LEDWIDGE

Angela Frewen