NOCTURNE
The rim of the moon
Is over the corn.
The beetle's drone
Is above the thorn.
Grey days come soon
And I am alone;
Can you hear my moan
Where you rest, Aroon?
When the wild tree bore
The deep blue cherry,
In night's deep hall
183
Page:The Complete Poems of Francis Ledwidge, 1919.djvu/189
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