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?                
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
The memory of Francis Ledwidge evokes among Irish people a great sadness. He died a young man in the Great War. The serenity and humility of this poem demonstrates clearly our sense of loss not only of a known wonderful person but of a poet who espoused peace and tranquility. The crushing of Ledwidge's life by the Great War is mirrored in the rejection by Irish society of simple, trusted and life-enhancing values, so poignantly depicted here by Ledwidge. The unamed whistling bare-footed boy can easily be seen as a metaphor for the death of simplicity.