The Black Spot
We have no claim upon the stars
Nor the moon with its homesick view,
Nor yet the clouds contoured in gold
Amid the unending blue.
We have no claim on anything save
This old earth's moldered façade,
And all that has come apart to chaos
Amid the glory of God.
Hedd Wyn (1887–July 31, 1917)
Youth
SHE paved the way with perfume sweet
Of flowers that moved like winds alight,
And never weary grew my feet
Wandering through the spring's delight.
She dropped her sweet fife to her lips
And lured me with her melodies,
To where the great big wandering ships
Put out into the peaceful seas.
But when the year grew chill and brown,
And all the wings of Summer flown,
Within the tumult of a town
She left me to grow old alone.
Francis Ledwidge (1887–July 31, 1917)
Today is the 93rd anniversary of the death of both the Welsh poet Hedd Wyn and the Irish poet Francis Ledwidge. Both were killed in France at the Battle of Passchendaele. Not a good day to be a poet/soldier.
