I walk the old frequented ways <br />That wind around the tangled braes, <br />I live again the sunny days <br />Ere I the city knew. <br /> <br />And scenes of old again are born, <br />The woodbine lassoing the thorn, <br />And drooping Ruth-like in the corn <br />The poppies weep the dew. <br /> <br />Above me in their hundred schools <br />The magpies bend their young to rules, <br />And like an apron full of jewels <br />The dewy cobweb swings. <br /> <br />And frisking in the stream below <br />The troutlets make the circles flow, <br />And the hungry crane doth watch them grow <br />As a smoker does his rings. <br /> <br />Above me smokes the little town, <br />With its whitewashed walls and roofs of brown <br />And its octagon spire toned smoothly down <br />As the holy minds within. <br /> <br />And wondrous impudently sweet, <br />Half of him passion, half conceit, <br />The blackbird calls adown the street <br />Like the piper of Hamelin. <br /> <br />I hear him, and I feel the lure <br />Drawing me back to the homely moor, <br />I'll go and close the mountain's door <br />On the city's strife and din.<br /><br />Francis Ledwidge<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/behind-the-closed-eye/
