by Francis Ledwidge

The dreadful hour is sighing for a moon
To light old lovers to the place of tryst,
And old footsteps from blessed acres soon
On old known pathways will be lightly prest;
And winds that went to eavesdrop since the noon,
Kinking at some old tale told sweetly brief,
Will give a cowslick to the yarrow leaf,
And sling the round nut from the hazel down.
And there will be old yarn balls, and old spells
In broken lime-kilns, and old eyes will peer
For constant lovers in old spidery wells,
And old embraces will grow newly dear.
And some may meet old lovers in old dells,
And some in doors ajar in towns light-lorn ; —
But two will meet beneath a gnarly thorn
Deep in the bosom of the windy fells.
Then when the night slopes home and whitefaced day
Yawns in the east there will be sad farewells ;
And many feet will tap a lonely way
Back to the comfort of their chilly cells,
And eyes will backward turn and long to stay
Where love first found them in the clover bloom —
But one will never seek the lonely tomb,
And two will linger at the tryst alway.

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