On Reading Francis Ledwidge’s Last Songs

At April’s end, when blossoms break
To birth upon my apple-tree,
I know the certain year will take
Full harvest of this infancy.

At April’s end, when comes the dear
Occasion of your valley tune,
I know your beauty’s arc is here,
A little ghostly morning moon.

Yet are these fosterlings of rhyme
As fortunately born to spend
Happy conspiracies with time
As apple flowers at April’s end.