Last Poems by A. E. Housman

XXXII

     When I would muse in boyhood         The wild green woods among,     And nurse resolves and fancies         Because the world was young,     It was not foes to conquer,         Nor sweethearts to be kind,     But it was friends to die for         That I would seek and find.     I sought them far and found them,         The sure, the straight, the brave,     The hearts I lost my own to,         The souls I could not save.     They braced their belts about them,         They crossed in ships the sea,     They sought and found six feet of ground,         And there they died for me.

XXXIII

     When the eye of day is shut,         And the stars deny their beams,     And about the forest hut         Blows the roaring wood of dreams,     From deep clay, from desert rock,         From the sunk sands of the main,     Come not at my door to knock,         Hearts that loved me not again.     Sleep, be still, turn to your rest         In the lands where you are laid;     In far lodgings east and west         Lie down on the beds you made.     In gross marl, in blowing dust,         In the drowned ooze of the sea,     Where you would not, lie you must,         Lie you must, and not with me.

XXXIV

     THE FIRST OF MAY     The orchards half the way         From home to Ludlow fair     Flowered on the first of May         In Mays when I was there;     And seen from stile or turning         The plume of smoke would show     Where fires were burning         That went out long ago.     The plum broke forth in green,         The pear stood high and snowed,     My friends and I between         Would take the Ludlow road;     Dressed to the nines and drinking         And light in heart and limb,     And each chap thinking         The fair was held for him.     Between the trees in flower         New friends at fairtime tread     The way where Ludlow tower         Stands planted on the dead.     Our thoughts, a long while after,         They think, our words they say;     Theirs now's the laughter,         The fair, the first of May.     Ay, yonder lads are yet         The fools that we were then;     For oh, the sons we get         Are still the sons of men.     The sumless tale of sorrow         Is all unrolled in vain:     May comes to-morrow         And Ludlow fair again.

XXXV

     When first my way to fair I took         Few pence in purse had I,     And long I used to stand and look         At things I could not buy.     Now times are altered:  if I care         To buy a thing, I can;     The pence are here and here's the fair,         But where's the lost young man?     —To think that two and two are four         And neither five nor three     The heart of man has long been sore         And long 'tis like to be.

XXXVI. REVOLUTION

     West and away the wheels of darkness roll,         Day's beamy banner up the east is borne,     Spectres and fears, the nightmare and her foal,         Drown in the golden deluge of the morn.     But over sea and continent from sight         Safe to the Indies has the earth conveyed     The vast and moon-eclipsing cone of night,         Her towering foolscap of eternal shade.     See, in mid heaven the sun is mounted; hark,         The belfries tingle to the noonday chime.     'Tis silent, and the subterranean dark         Has crossed the nadir, and begins to climb.

XXXVII. EPITAPH ON AN ARMY OF MERCENARIES

     These, in the day when heaven was falling,         The hour when earth's foundations fled,     Followed their mercenary calling         And took their wages and are dead.     Their shoulders held the sky suspended;         They stood, and earth's foundations stay;     What God abandoned, these defended,         And saved the sum of things for pay.

XXXVIII

     Oh stay at home, my lad, and plough         The land and not the sea,     And leave the soldiers at their drill,     And all about the idle hill         Shepherd your sheep with me.     Oh stay with company and mirth         And daylight and the air;     Too full already is the grave     Of fellows that were good and brave         And died because they were.

XXXIX

     When summer's end is nighing         And skies at evening cloud,     I muse on change and fortune         And all the feats I vowed         When I was young and proud.     The weathercock at sunset         Would lose the slanted ray,     And I would climb the beacon         That looked to Wales away         And saw the last of day.     From hill and cloud and heaven         The hues of evening died;     Night welled through lane and hollow         And hushed the countryside,         But I had youth and pride.     And I with earth and nightfall         In converse high would stand,     Late, till the west was ashen         And darkness hard at hand,         And the eye lost the land.     The year might age, and cloudy         The lessening day might close,     But air of other summers         Breathed from beyond the snows,         And I had hope of those.     They came and were and are not         And come no more anew;     And all the years and seasons         That ever can ensue         Must now be worse and few.     So here's an end of roaming         On eves when autumn nighs:     The ear too fondly listens         For summer's parting sighs,         And then the heart replies.

XL

     Tell me not here, it needs not saying,         What tune the enchantress plays     In aftermaths of soft September         Or under blanching mays,     For she and I were long acquainted         And I knew all her ways.     On russet floors, by waters idle,         The pine lets fall its cone;     The cuckoo shouts all day at nothing         In leafy dells alone;     And traveler's joy beguiles in autumn         Hearts that have lost their own.     On acres of the seeded grasses         The changing burnish heaves;     Or marshalled under moons of harvest         Stand still all night the sheaves;     Or beeches strip in storms for winter         And stain the wind with leaves.     Possess, as I possessed a season,         The countries I resign,     Where over elmy plains the highway         Would mount the hills and shine,     And full of shade the pillared forest         Would murmur and be mine.     For nature, heartless, witless nature,         Will neither care nor know     What stranger's feet may find the meadow         And trespass there and go,     Nor ask amid the dews of morning         If they are mine or no.

XLI. FANCY'S KNELL

     When lads were home from labour         At Abdon under Clee,     A man would call his neighbor         And both would send for me.     And where the light in lances         Across the mead was laid,     There to the dances         I fetched my flute and played.     Ours were idle pleasures,         Yet oh, content we were,     The young to wind the measures,         The old to heed the air;     And I to lift with playing         From tree and tower and steep     The light delaying,         And flute the sun to sleep.     The youth toward his fancy         Would turn his brow of tan,     And Tom would pair with Nancy         And Dick step off with Fan;     The girl would lift her glances         To his, and both be mute:     Well went the dances         At evening to the flute.     Wenlock Edge was umbered,         And bright was Abdon Burf,     And warm between them slumbered         The smooth green miles of turf;     Until from grass and clover         The upshot beam would fade,     And England over         Advanced the lofty shade.     The lofty shade advances,         I fetch my flute and play:     Come, lads, and learn the dances         And praise the tune to-day.     To-morrow, more's the pity,         Away we both must hie,     To air the ditty,         And to earth I.