(Killed in action July 31, 1917) <br /> <br />Nevermore singing <br />Will you go now, <br />Wearing wild moonlight <br />On your brow. <br />The moon's white mood <br />In your silver mind <br />Is all forgotten. <br />Words of wind <br />From off the hedgerow <br />After rain, <br />You do not hear them; <br />They are vain. <br />There is a linnet <br />Craves a song, <br />And you returning <br />Before long. <br />Now who will tell her, <br />Who can say <br />On what great errand <br />You are away? <br />You whose kindred <br />Were hills of Meath, <br />Who sang the lane-rose <br />From her sheath, <br />What voice will cry them <br />The grief at dawn <br />Or say to the blackbird <br />You are gone?<br /><br />Grace Hazard Conkling<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/francis-ledwidge/
