he drew most of his inspiration from his memories of Ireland, and there is no lyric in his Songs of Peace more exquisite in feeling and utterance than 'A Little Boy in the Morning'—
He will not come, and still I wait.
He whistles at another gate
Where angels listen. Ah, I know
He will not come, yet if I go,
How shall I know he did not pass
Barefooted in the flowery grass?...
The war breaks in upon the music of his Last Songs now and then, but more often these poems written in France or Belgium are of nothing but flowers and fairies, birds and children and the sights and sounds of his own land, for, as his little song 'In France' has it—
Whatever way I turn I find
The path is old unto me still;
The hills of home are in my mind,
And there I wander as I will.
There is enough, and more than enough, in his three volumes to indicate what our literature has lost by his early death and to justify Lord Dunsany, who discovered
