Last Poems by A. E. Housman

A. E. Housman

Last Poems

I publish these poems, few though they are, because it is not likely that I shall ever be impelled to write much more. I can no longer expect to be revisited by the continuous excitement under which in the early months of 1895 I wrote the greater part of my first book, nor indeed could I well sustain it if it came; and it is best that what I have written should be printed while I am here to see it through the press and control its spelling and punctuation. About a quarter of this matter belongs to the April of the present year, but most of it to dates between 1895 and 1910.

September 1922

We'll to the woods no more,The laurels are all cut,The bowers are bare of bayThat once the Muses wore;The year draws in the dayAnd soon will evening shut:The laurels all are cut,We'll to the woods no more.Oh we'll no more, no moreTo the leafy woods away,To the high wild woods of laurelAnd the bowers of bay no more.

I. THE WEST

     Beyond the moor and the mountain crest     —Comrade, look not on the west—     The sun is down and drinks away     From air and land the lees of day.     The long cloud and the single pine     Sentinel the ending line,     And out beyond it, clear and wan,     Reach the gulfs of evening on.     The son of woman turns his brow     West from forty countries now,     And, as the edge of heaven he eyes,     Thinks eternal thoughts, and sighs.     Oh wide's the world, to rest or roam,     With change abroad and cheer at home,     Fights and furloughs, talk and tale,     Company and beef and ale.     But if I front the evening sky     Silent on the west look I,     And my comrade, stride for stride,     Paces silent at my side,     Comrade, look not on the west:     'Twill have the heart out of your breast;     'Twill take your thoughts and sink them far,     Leagues beyond the sunset bar.     Oh lad, I fear that yon's the sea     Where they fished for you and me,     And there, from whence we both were ta'en,     You and I shall drown again.     Send not on your soul before     To dive from that beguiling shore,     And let not yet the swimmer leave     His clothes upon the sands of eve.     Too fast to yonder strand forlorn     We journey, to the sunken bourn,     To flush the fading tinges eyed     By other lads at eventide.     Wide is the world, to rest or roam,     And early 'tis for turning home:     Plant your heel on earth and stand,     And let's forget our native land.     When you and I are split on air     Long we shall be strangers there;     Friends of flesh and bone are best;     Comrade, look not on the west.

II

     As I gird on for fighting         My sword upon my thigh,     I think on old ill fortunes         Of better men than I.     Think I, the round world over,         What golden lads are low     With hurts not mine to mourn for         And shames I shall not know.     What evil luck soever         For me remains in store,     'Tis sure much finer fellows         Have fared much worse before.     So here are things to think on         That ought to make me brave,     As I strap on for fighting         My sword that will not save.

III

     Her strong enchantments failing,         Her towers of fear in wreck,     Her limbecks dried of poisons         And the knife at her neck,     The Queen of air and darkness         Begins to shrill and cry,     'O young man, O my slayer,         To-morrow you shall die.'     O Queen of air and darkness,         I think 'tis truth you say,     And I shall die to-morrow;         But you will die to-day.

IV. ILLIC JACET

     Oh hard is the bed they have made him,         And common the blanket and cheap;     But there he will lie as they laid him:         Where else could you trust him to sleep?     To sleep when the bugle is crying         And cravens have heard and are brave,     When mothers and sweethearts are sighing         And lads are in love with the grave.     Oh dark is the chamber and lonely,         And lights and companions depart;     But lief will he lose them and only         Behold the desire of his heart.     And low is the roof, but it covers         A sleeper content to repose;     And far from his friends and his lovers         He lies with the sweetheart he chose.

V. GRENADIER

     The Queen she sent to look for me,         The sergeant he did say,     'Young man, a soldier will you be         For thirteen pence a day?'     For thirteen pence a day did I         Take off the things I wore,     And I have marched to where I lie,         And I shall march no more.     My mouth is dry, my shirt is wet,         My blood runs all away,     So now I shall not die in debt         For thirteen pence a day.     To-morrow after new young men         The sergeant he must see,     For things will all be over then         Between the Queen and me.     And I shall have to bate my price,         For in the grave, they say,     Is neither knowledge nor device         Nor thirteen pence a day.

VI. LANCER

     I 'listed at home for a lancer,         Oh who would not sleep with the brave?     I 'listed at home for a lancer         To ride on a horse to my grave.     And over the seas we were bidden         A country to take and to keep;     And far with the brave I have ridden,         And now with the brave I shall sleep.     For round me the men will be lying         That learned me the way to behave.     And showed me my business of dying:         Oh who would not sleep with the brave?     They ask and there is not an answer;     Says I, I will 'list for a lancer,         Oh who would not sleep with the brave?     And I with the brave shall be sleeping         At ease on my mattress of loam,     When back from their taking and keeping         The squadron is riding home.     The wind with the plumes will be playing,         The girls will stand watching them wave,     And eyeing my comrades and saying         Oh who would not sleep with the brave?     They ask and there is not an answer;     Says you, I will 'list for a lancer,         Oh who would not sleep with the brave?

VII

     In valleys green and still         Where lovers wander maying     They hear from over hill         A music playing.     Behind the drum and fife,         Past hawthornwood and hollow,     Through earth and out of life         The soldiers follow.     The soldier's is the trade:         In any wind or weather     He steals the heart of maid         And man together.     The lover and his lass         Beneath the hawthorn lying     Have heard the soldiers pass,         And both are sighing.     And down the distance they         With dying note and swelling     Walk the resounding way         To the still dwelling.

VIII

     Soldier from the wars returning,         Spoiler of the taken town,     Here is ease that asks not earning;         Turn you in and sit you down.     Peace is come and wars are over,         Welcome you and welcome all,     While the charger crops the clover         And his bridle hangs in stall.     Now no more of winters biting,         Filth in trench from fall to spring,     Summers full of sweat and fighting         For the Kesar or the King.     Rest you, charger, rust you, bridle;         Kings and kesars, keep your pay;     Soldier, sit you down and idle         At the inn of night for aye.

IX

     The chestnut casts his flambeaux, and the flowers         Stream from the hawthorn on the wind away,     The doors clap to, the pane is blind with showers.         Pass me the can, lad; there's an end of May.     There's one spoilt spring to scant our mortal lot,         One season ruined of our little store.     May will be fine next year as like as not:         Oh ay, but then we shall be twenty-four.     We for a certainty are not the first         Have sat in taverns while the tempest hurled     Their hopeful plans to emptiness, and cursed         Whatever brute and blackguard made the world.     It is in truth iniquity on high         To cheat our sentenced souls of aught they crave,     And mar the merriment as you and I         Fare on our long fool's-errand to the grave.     Iniquity it is; but pass the can.         My lad, no pair of kings our mothers bore;     Our only portion is the estate of man:         We want the moon, but we shall get no more.     If here to-day the cloud of thunder lours         To-morrow it will hie on far behests;     The flesh will grieve on other bones than ours         Soon, and the soul will mourn in other breasts.     The troubles of our proud and angry dust         Are from eternity, and shall not fail.     Bear them we can, and if we can we must.         Shoulder the sky, my lad, and drink your ale.

X

     Could man be drunk for ever         With liquor, love, or fights,     Lief should I rouse at morning

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