He will not come, and still I wait.

I read A Little Boy in the Morning many years ago, in a book called This is Not a Novel (by Jennifer Johnston) many years ago. I remember the book but vaguely, but the poem has stayed with me, taking on myriad meanings in different years and moods.

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 moon leans on one silver horn
Above the silhouettes of morn,
And from their nest-sills finches whistle
Or stooping pluck the downy thistle.
How is the morn so gay and fair
Without his whistling in its air?

The world is calling, I must go.
How shall I know he did not pass
Barefooted in the shining grass?

Francis Ledwidge