In the Dark

Broom out the floor now, lay the fender by,
And plant this bee-sucked bough of woodbine there,
And let the window down. The butterfly
Floats in upon the sunbeam, and the fair
Tanned face of June, the nomad gipsy, laughts
Above her widespread wares,the while she tells
The farmer’s fortunes in the fields, and quaffs
The water from the spider-peopled wells.

The hedges are all drowned in green grass seas,
And bobbing poppies flare like Elmo’s light
While siren-like the pollen-stained bees
Drone in the clover depths. And up the height
The cuckoo’s voice is hoarse and broke with joy.
And on the lowland crops the crows make raid,
Nor fear the clappers of the farmer’s boy,
Who sleeps, like drunken Noah, in the shade.

And loop this red rose in that hazel ring
That snares your little ear, for June is short
And we must joy in it and dance and sing,
And from her bounty draw her rosy worth.
Ay! soon the swallows will be flying south,
The wind wheel north to gather in the snow
Even the roses spilt on youth’s red mouth
Will soon blow down the road all roses go.

by Francis Ledwidge (1887-1917)

Ledwidge was born in Slane, County Meath, in Ireland. He served in the British Army in the First World War and was killed at Passchendaele during the Third Battle of Ypres, just a few weeks before his 30th birthday. I’ve posted this poem before but was reminded of it when I saw some roses in my garden had died while I was away last week.

This entry was posted on June 7, 2026 at 11:11 am and is filed under Poetry with tags Francis Ledwidge, June, Poem, Poetry. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.