Page:The Complete Poems of Francis Ledwidge, 1919.djvu/249

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THE LITTLE CHILDREN

Hunger points a bony finger
To the workhouse on the hill,
But the little children linger
While there's flowers to gather still
For my sunny window sill.


In my hands I take their faces,
Smiling to my smiles they run.
Would that I could take their places
Where the murky bye-ways shun
The benedictions of the sun.


How they laugh and sing returning

Lightly on their secret way.

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