III
It is too late now to retrieve
A fallen dream, too late to grieve
A name unmade, but not too late
To thank the gods for what is great:
A keen-edged sword, a soldier's heart,
Is greater than a poet's art,
And greater than a poet's fame
A little grave that has no name.
Lance-Corpl. Francis Ledwidge, Last Songs.
None of the poets of the New Armies has written finer poetry than Francis Ledwidge, and few have found less inspiration in the war itself. The first of his books, Songs of the Fields, made its appearance when the war was young and he was still a civilian; the second, which he named Songs of Peace, after he had put on khaki and was gone on active service. He fought on the Serbian Retreat, and in Gallipoli; then was sent to Flanders, where he fell in action in July 1917. 'I have taken up arms,' he wrote to Lord Dunsany, 'for the fields along the Boyne, and the birds and the blue sky over them'; and in that
