The Project Gutenberg EBook of A Shropshire Lad, by A. E. Housman

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Title: A Shropshire Lad

Author: A. E. Housman

Commentator: William Stanley Braithwaite

Release Date: June 2, 2009 [EBook #5720]
Last Updated: February 4, 2013

Language: English

Character set encoding: ASCII


Produced by Albert Imrie, and David Widger


By A. E. Housman

Introduction by William Stanley Braithwaite





The method of the poems in A Shropshire Lad illustrates better than any theory how poetry may assume the attire of reality, and yet in speech of the simplest, become in spirit the sheer quality of loveliness. For, in these unobtrusive pages, there is nothing shunned which makes the spectacle of life parade its dark and painful, its ironic and cynical burdens, as well as those images with happy and exquisite aspects. With a broader and deeper background of experience and environment, which by some divine special privilege belongs to the poetic imagination, it is easier to set apart and contrast these opposing words and sympathies in a poet; but here we find them evoked in a restricted locale- an English county-where the rich, cool tranquil landscape gives a solid texture to the human show. What, I think, impresses one, thrills, like ecstatic, half-smothered strains of music, floating from unperceived instruments, in Mr. Housman's poems, is the encounter his spirit constantly endures with life. It is, this encounter, what you feel in the Greeks, and as in the Greeks, it is a spiritual waging of miraculous forces. There is, too, in Mr. Housman's poems, the singularly Grecian Quality of a clean and fragrant mental and emotional temper, vibrating equally whether the theme dealt with is ruin or defeat, or some great tragic crisis of spirit, or with moods and ardours of pure enjoyment and simplicities of feeling. Scarcely has any modern book of poems shown so sure a touch of genius in this respect: the magic, in a continuous glow saturating the substance of every picture and motive with its own peculiar essence.

What has been called the "cynical bitterness" of Mr. Housman's poems, is really nothing more than his ability to etch in sharp tones the actualities of experience. The poet himself is never cynical; his joyousness is all too apparent in the very manner and intensity of expression. The "lads" of Ludlow are so human to him, the hawthorn and broom on the Severn shores are so fragrant with associations, he cannot help but compose under a kind of imaginative wizardry of exultation, even when the immediate subject is grim or grotesque. In many of these brief, tense poems the reader confronts a mask, as it were, with appalling and distorted lineaments; but behind it the poet smiles, perhaps sardonically, but smiles nevertheless. In the real countenance there are no tears or grievances, but a quizzical, humorous expression which shows, when one has torn the subterfuge away, that here is a spirit whom life may menace with its contradictions and fatalities, but never dupe with its circumstance and mystery.

All this quite points to, and partly explains, the charm of the poems in A Shropshire Lad . The fastidious care with which each poem is built out of the simplest of technical elements, the precise tone and color of language employed to articulate impulse and mood, and the reproduction of objective substances for a clear visualization of character and scene, all tend by a sure and unfaltering composition, to present a lyric art unique in English poetry of the last twenty-five years.

I dare say I have scarcely touched upon the secret of Mr. Housman's book. For some it may radiate from the Shropshire life he so finely etches; for others, in the vivid artistic simplicity and unity of values, through which Shropshire lads and landscapes are presented. It must be, however, in the miraculous fusing of the two. Whatever that secret is, the charm of it never fails after all these years to keep the poems preserved with a freshness and vitality, which are the qualities of enduring genius.





          From Clee to heaven the beacon burns,
           The shires have seen it plain,
          From north and south the sign returns
           And beacons burn again.

          Look left, look right, the hills are bright,
           The dales are light between,
          Because 'tis fifty years to-night
           That God has saved the Queen.

          Now, when the flame they watch not towers
           About the soil they trod,
          Lads, we'll remember friends of ours
           Who shared the work with God.

          To skies that knit their heartstrings right,
           To fields that bred them brave,
          The saviours come not home to-night:
           Themselves they could not save.

          It dawns in Asia, tombstones show
           And Shropshire names are read;
          And the Nile spills his overflow
           Beside the Severn's dead.

          We pledge in peace by farm and town
           The Queen they served in war,
          And fire the beacons up and down
           The land they perished for.

          "God Save the Queen" we living sing,
           From height to height 'tis heard;
          And with the rest your voices ring,
           Lads of the Fifty-third.

          Oh, God will save her, fear you not:
           Be you the men you've been,
          Get you the sons your fathers got,
           And God will Save the Queen.

          Loveliest of trees, the cherry now
          Is hung with bloom along the bough,
          And stands about the woodland ride
          Wearing white for Eastertide.

          Now, of my threescore years and ten,
          Twenty will not come again,
          And take from seventy springs a score,
          It only leaves me fifty more.

          And since to look at things in bloom
          Fifty springs are little room,
          About the woodlands I will go
          To see the cherry hung with snow.

          THE RECRUIT

          Leave your home behind, lad,
           And reach your friends your hand,
          And go, and luck go with you
           While Ludlow tower shall stand.

          Oh, come you home of Sunday
           When Ludlow streets are still
          And Ludlow bells are calling
           To farm and lane and mill,

          Or come you home of Monday
           When Ludlow market hums
          And Ludlow chimes are playing
           "The conquering hero comes,"

          Come you home a hero,
           Or come not home at all,
          The lads you leave will mind you
           Till Ludlow tower shall fall.

          And you will list the bugle
           That blows in lands of morn,
          And make the foes of England
           Be sorry you were born.

          And you till trump of doomsday
           On lands of morn may lie,
          And make the hearts of comrades
           Be heavy where you die.

          Leave your home behind you,
           Your friends by field and town
          Oh, town and field will mind you
           Till Ludlow tower is down.


          Wake: the silver dusk returning
           Up the beach of darkness brims,
          And the ship of sunrise burning
           Strands upon the eastern rims.

          Wake: the vaulted shadow shatters,
           Trampled to the floor it spanned,
          And the tent of night in tatters
           Straws the sky-pavilioned land.

          Up, lad, up, 'tis late for lying:
           Hear the drums of morning play;
          Hark, the empty highways crying
           "Who'll beyond the hills away?"

          Towns and countries woo together,
           Forelands beacon, belfries call;
          Never lad that trod on leather
           Lived to feast his heart with all.

          Up, lad: thews that lie and cumber
           Sunlit pallets never thrive;
          Morns abed and daylight slumber
           Were not meant for man alive.

          Clay lies still, but blood's a rover;
           Breath's a ware that will not keep
          Up, lad: when the journey's over
           There'll be time enough to sleep.

          Oh see how thick the goldcup flowers
           Are lying in field and lane,
          With dandelions to tell the hours
           That never are told again.
          Oh may I squire you round the meads
           And pick you posies gay?
          -'Twill do no harm to take my arm.
           "You may, young man, you may."

          Ah, spring was sent for lass and lad,
           'Tis now the blood runs gold,
          And man and maid had best be glad
           Before the world is old.
          What flowers to-day may flower to-morrow,
           But never as good as new.
          -Suppose I wound my arm right round-
           " 'Tis true, young man, 'tis true."

          Some lads there are, 'tis shame to say,
           That only court to thieve,
          And once they bear the bloom away
           'Tis little enough they leave.
          Then keep your heart for men like me
           And safe from trustless chaps.
          My love is true and all for you.
           "Perhaps, young man, perhaps."

          Oh, look in my eyes, then, can you doubt?
           -Why, 'tis a mile from town.
          How green the grass is all about!
           We might as well sit down.
          -Ah, life, what is it but a flower?
           Why must true lovers sigh?
          Be kind, have pity, my own, my pretty,-
           "Good-bye, young man, good-bye."

          When the lad for longing sighs,
           Mute and dull of cheer and pale,
          If at death's own door he lies,
           Maiden, you can heal his ail.

          Lovers' ills are all to buy:
           The wan look, the hollow tone,
          The hung head, the sunken eye,
           You can have them for your own.

          Buy them, buy them: eve and morn
           Lovers' ills are all to sell.
          Then you can lie down forlorn;
           But the lover will be well.

          When smoke stood up from Ludlow,
           And mist blew off from Teme,
          And blithe afield to ploughing
           Against the morning beam
           I strode beside my team,

          The blackbird in the coppice
           Looked out to see me stride,
          And hearkened as I whistled
           The tramping team beside,
           And fluted and replied:

          "Lie down, lie down, young yeoman;
           What use to rise and rise?
          Rise man a thousand mornings
           Yet down at last he lies,
           And then the man is wise."

          I heard the tune he sang me,
           And spied his yellow bill;
          I picked a stone and aimed it
           And threw it with a will:
           Then the bird was still.

          Then my soul within me
           Took up the blackbird's strain,
          And still beside the horses
           Along the dewy lane
           It Sang the song again:

          "Lie down, lie down, young yeoman;
           The sun moves always west;
          The road one treads to labour
           Will lead one home to rest,
           And that will be the best."

          "Farewell to barn and stack and tree,
           Farewell to Severn shore.
          Terence, look your last at me,
           For I come home no more.

          "The sun burns on the half-mown hill,
           By now the blood is dried;
          And Maurice amongst the hay lies still
           And my knife is in his side."

          "My mother thinks us long away;
           'Tis time the field were mown.
          She had two sons at rising day,
           To-night she'll be alone."

          "And here's a bloody hand to shake,
           And oh, man, here's good-bye;
          We'll sweat no more on scythe and rake,
           My bloody hands and I."

          "I wish you strength to bring you pride,
           And a love to keep you clean,
          And I wish you luck, come Lammastide,
           At racing on the green."

          "Long for me the rick will wait,
           And long will wait the fold,
          And long will stand the empty plate,
           And dinner will be cold."

          On moonlit heath and lonesome bank
           The sheep beside me graze;
          And yon the gallows used to clank
           Fast by the four cross ways.

          A careless shepherd once would keep
           The flocks by moonlight there, (1)
          And high amongst the glimmering sheep
           The dead man stood on air.

          They hang us now in Shrewsbury jail:
           The whistles blow forlorn,
          And trains all night groan on the rail
           To men that die at morn.

          There sleeps in Shrewsbury jail to-night,
           Or wakes, as may betide,
          A better lad, if things went right,
           Than most that sleep outside.

          And naked to the hangman's noose
           The morning clocks will ring
          A neck God made for other use
           Than strangling in a string.

          And sharp the link of life will snap,
           And dead on air will stand
          Heels that held up as straight a chap
           As treads upon the land.

          So here I'll watch the night and wait
           To see the morning shine,
          When he will hear the stroke of eight
           And not the stroke of nine;

          And wish my friend as sound a sleep
           As lads' I did not know,
          That shepherded the moonlit sheep
           A hundred years ago.

          (1) Hanging in chains was called keeping sheep by moonlight.


          The sun at noon to higher air,
          Unharnessing the silver Pair
          That late before his chariot swam,
          Rides on the gold wool of the Ram.

          So braver notes the storm-cock sings
          To start the rusted wheel of things,
          And brutes in field and brutes in pen
          Leap that the world goes round again.

          The boys are up the woods with day
          To fetch the daffodils away,
          And home at noonday from the hills
          They bring no dearth of daffodils.

          Afield for palms the girls repair,
          And sure enough the palms are there,
          And each will find by hedge or pond
          Her waving silver-tufted wand.

          In farm and field through all the shire
          The eye beholds the heart's desire;
          Ah, let not only mine be vain,
          For lovers should be loved again.

          On your midnight pallet lying
           Listen, and undo the door:
          Lads that waste the light in sighing
           In the dark should sigh no more;
          Night should ease a lover's sorrow;
          Therefore, since I go to-morrow;
           Pity me before.

          In the land to which I travel,
           The far dwelling, let me say-
          Once, if here the couch is gravel,
           In a kinder bed I lay,
          And the breast the darnel smothers
          Rested once upon another's
           When it was not clay.

          When I watch the living meet,
           And the moving pageant file
          Warm and breathing through the street
           Where I lodge a little while,

          If the heats of hate and lust
           In the house of flesh are strong,
          Let me mind the house of dust
           Where my sojourn shall be long.

          In the nation that is not
           Nothing stands that stood before;
          There revenges are forgot,
           And the hater hates no more;

          Lovers lying two and two
           Ask not whom they sleep beside,
          And the bridegroom all night through
           Never turns him to the bride.

          When I was one-and-twenty
           I heard a wise man say,
          "Give crowns and pounds and guineas
           But not your heart away;
          Give pearls away and rubies
           But keep your fancy free."
          But I was one-and-twenty,
           No use to talk to me.

          When I was one-and-twenty
           I heard him say again,
          "The heart out of the bosom
           Was never given in vain;
          'Tis paid with sighs a plenty
           And sold for endless rue."
          And I am two-and-twenty,
           And oh, 'tis true, 'tis true.

          There pass the careless people
           That call their souls their own:
          Here by the road I loiter,
           How idle and alone.

          Ah, past the plunge of plummet,
           In seas I cannot sound,
          My heart and soul and senses,
           World without end, are drowned.

          His folly has not fellow
           Beneath the blue of day
          That gives to man or woman
           His heart and soul away.

          There flowers no balm to sain him
           From east of earth to west
          That's lost for everlasting
           The heart out of his breast.

          Here by the labouring highway
           With empty hands I stroll:
          Sea-deep, till doomsday morning,
           Lie lost my heart and soul.

          Look not in my eyes, for fear
           They mirror true the sight I see,
          And there you find your face too clear
           And love it and be lost like me.
          One the long nights through must lie
           Spent in star-defeated sighs,
          But why should you as well as I
           Perish? gaze not in my eyes.

          A Grecian lad, as I hear tell,
           One that many loved in vain,
          Looked into a forest well
           And never looked away again.
          There, when the turf in springtime flowers,
           With downward eye and gazes sad,
          Stands amid the glancing showers
           A jonquil, not a Grecian lad.

          It nods and curtseys and recovers
           When the wind blows above,
          The nettle on the graves of lovers
           That hanged themselves for love.

          The nettle nods, the wind blows over,
           The man, he does not move,
          The lover of the grave, the lover
           That hanged himself for love.

          Twice a week the winter thorough
           Here stood I to keep the goal:
          Football then was fighting sorrow
           For the young man's soul.

          Now in May time to the wicket
           Out I march with bat and pad:
          See the son of grief at cricket
           Trying to be glad.

          Try I will; no harm in trying:
           Wonder 'tis how little mirth
          Keeps the bones of man from lying
           On the bed of earth.

          Oh, when I was in love with you,
           Then I was clean and brave,
          And miles around the wonder grew
           How well did I behave.

          And now the fancy passes by,
           And nothing will remain,
          And miles around they'll say that I
           Am quite myself again.


          The time you won your town the race
          We chaired you through the market-place;
          Man and boy stood cheering by,
          And home we brought you shoulder-high.

          To-day, the road all runners come,
          Shoulder-high we bring you home,
          And set you at your threshold down,
          Townsman of a stiller town.

          Smart lad, to slip betimes away
          From fields where glory does not stay
          And early though the laurel grows
          It withers quicker than the rose.

          Eyes the shady night has shut
          Cannot see the record cut,
          And silence sounds no worse than cheers
          After earth has stopped the ears:

          Now you will not swell the rout
          Of lads that wore their honours out,
          Runners whom renown outran
          And the name died before the man.

          So set, before its echoes fade,
          The fleet foot on the sill of shade,
          And hold to the low lintel up
          The still-defended challenge-cup.

          And round that early-laurelled head
          Will flock to gaze the strengthless dead,
          And find unwithered on its curls
          The garland briefer than a girl's.

          Oh fair enough are sky and plain,
           But I know fairer far:
          Those are as beautiful again
           That in the water are;

          The pools and rivers wash so clean
           The trees and clouds and air,
          The like on earth was never seen,
           And oh that I were there.

          These are the thoughts I often think
           As I stand gazing down
          In act upon the cressy brink
           To strip and dive and drown;

          But in the golden-sanded brooks
           And azure meres I spy
          A silly lad that longs and looks
           And wishes he were I.

          BREDON HILL (1)

          In summertime on Bredon
           The bells they sound so clear;
          Round both the shires they ring them
           In steeples far and near,
           A happy noise to hear.

          Here of a Sunday morning
           My love and I would lie
          And see the coloured counties,
           And hear the larks so high
           About us in the sky.

          The bells would ring to call her
           In valleys miles away:
          "Come all to church, good people;
           Good people, come and pray."
           But here my love would stay.

          And I would turn and answer
           Among the springing thyme,
          "Oh, peal upon our wedding,
           And we will hear the chime,
           And come to church in time."

          But when the snows at Christmas
           On Bredon top were strown,
          My love rose up so early
           And stole out unbeknown
           And went to church alone.

          They tolled the one bell only,
           Groom there was none to see,
          The mourners followed after,
           And so to church went she,
           And would not wait for me.

          The bells they sound on Bredon,
           And still the steeples hum.
          "Come all to church, good people,"-
           Oh, noisy bells, be dumb;
           I hear you, I will come.
          (1) Pronounced Breedon.

          The street sounds to the soldiers' tread,
           And out we troop to see:
          A single redcoat turns his head,
           He turns and looks at me.

          My man, from sky to sky's so far,
           We never crossed before;
          Such leagues apart the world's ends are,
           We're like to meet no more;

          What thoughts at heart have you and I
           We cannot stop to tell;
          But dead or living, drunk or dry,
           Soldier, I wish you well.

          The lads in their hundreds to Ludlow come in for the fair,
           There's men from the barn and the forge and the mill and the fold,
          The lads for the girls and the lads for the liquor are there,
           And there with the rest are the lads that will never be old.

          There's chaps from the town and the field and the till and the cart,
           And many to count are the stalwart, and many the brave,
          And many the handsome of face and the handsome of heart,
           And few that will carry their looks or their truth to the grave.

          I wish one could know them, I wish there were tokens to tell
           The fortunate fellows that now you can never discern;
          And then one could talk with them friendly and wish them farewell
           And watch them depart on the way that they will not return.

          But now you may stare as you like and there's nothing to scan;
           And brushing your elbow unguessed-at and not to be told
          They carry back bright to the coiner the mintage of man,
           The lads that will die in their glory and never be old.

          Say, lad, have you things to do?
           Quick then, while your day's at prime.
          Quick, and if 'tis work for two,
           Here am I, man: now's your time.

          Send me now, and I shall go;
           Call me, I shall hear you call;
          Use me ere they lay me low
           Where a man's no use at all;

          Ere the wholesome flesh decay,
           And the willing nerve be numb,
          And the lips lack breath to say,
           "No, my lad, I cannot come."

          This time of year a twelvemonth past,
           When Fred and I would meet,
          We needs must jangle, till at last
           We fought and I was beat.

          So then the summer fields about,
           Till rainy days began,
          Rose Harland on her Sundays out
           Walked with the better man.

          The better man she walks with still,
           Though now 'tis not with Fred:
          A lad that lives and has his will
           Is worth a dozen dead.

          Fred keeps the house all kinds of weather,
           And clay's the house he keeps;
          When Rose and I walk out together
           Stock-still lies Fred and sleeps.

           Along the fields as we came by
          A year ago, my love and I,
          The aspen over stile and stone
          Was talking to itself alone.
          "Oh who are these that kiss and pass?
          A country lover and his lass;
          Two lovers looking to be wed;
          And time shall put them both to bed,
          But she shall lie with earth above,
          And he beside another love."

           And sure enough beneath the tree
          There walks another love with me,
          And overhead the aspen heaves
          Its rainy-sounding silver leaves;
          And I spell nothing in their stir,
          But now perhaps they speak to her,
          And plain for her to understand
          They talk about a time at hand
          When I shall sleep with clover clad,
          And she beside another lad.

          "Is my team ploughing,
           That I was used to drive
          And hear the harness jingle
           When I was man alive?"

          Ay, the horses trample,
           The harness jingles now;
          No change though you lie under
           The land you used to plough.

          "Is football playing
           Along the river shore,
          With lads to chase the leather,
           Now I stand up no more?"

          Ay, the ball is flying,
           The lads play heart and soul;
          The goal stands up, the keeper
           Stands up to keep the goal.

          "Is my girl happy,
           That I thought hard to leave,
          And has she tired of weeping
           As she lies down at eve?"

          Ay, she lies down lightly,
           She lies not down to weep:
          Your girl is well contented.
           Be still, my lad, and sleep.

          "Is my friend hearty,
           Now I am thin and pine,
          And has he found to sleep in
           A better bed than mine?"

          Yes, lad, I lie easy,
           I lie as lads would choose;
          I cheer a dead man's sweetheart,
           Never ask me whose.


          High the vanes of Shrewsbury gleam
          Islanded in Severn stream;
          The bridges from the steepled crest
          Cross the water east and west.

          The flag of morn in conqueror's state
          Enters at the English gate:
          The vanquished eve, as night prevails,
          Bleeds upon the road to Wales.

          Ages since the vanquished bled
          Round my mother's marriage-bed;
          There the ravens feasted far
          About the open house of war:

          When Severn down to Buildwas ran
          Coloured with the death of man,
          Couched upon her brother's grave
          The Saxon got me on the slave.

          The sound of fight is silent long
          That began the ancient wrong;
          Long the voice of tears is still
          That wept of old the endless ill.

          In my heart it has not died,
          The war that sleeps on Severn side;
          They cease not fighting, east and west,
          On the marches of my breast.

          Here the truceless armies yet
          Trample, rolled in blood and sweat;
          They kill and kill and never die;
          And I think that each is I.

          None will part us, none undo
          The knot that makes one flesh of two,
          Sick with hatred, sick with pain,
          Strangling-When shall we be slain?

          When shall I be dead and rid
          Of the wrong my father did?
          How long, how long, till spade and hearse
          Put to sleep my mother's curse?

          THE LENT LILY

          'Tis spring; come out to ramble
           The hilly brakes around,
          For under thorn and bramble
           About the hollow ground
           The primroses are found.

          And there's the windflower chilly
           With all the winds at play,
          And there's the Lenten lily
           That has not long to stay
           And dies on Easter day.

          And since till girls go maying
           You find the primrose still,
          And find the windflower playing
           With every wind at will,
           But not the daffodil,

          Bring baskets now, and sally
           Upon the spring's array,
          And bear from hill and valley
           The daffodil away
           That dies on Easter day.

          Others, I am not the first,
          Have willed more mischief than they durst:
          If in the breathless night I too
          Shiver now, 'tis nothing new.

          More than I, if truth were told,
          Have stood and sweated hot and cold,
          And through their reins in ice and fire
          Fear contended with desire.

          Agued once like me were they,
          But I like them shall win my way
          Lastly to the bed of mould
          Where there's neither heat nor cold.

          But from my grave across my brow
          Plays no wind of healing now,
          And fire and ice within me fight
          Beneath the suffocating night.

          On Wenlock Edge the wood's in trouble;
           His forest fleece the Wrekin heaves;
          The gale, it plies the saplings double,
           And thick on Severn snow the leaves.

          'Twould blow like this through holt and hanger
           When Uricon the city stood:
          'Tis the old wind in the old anger,
           But then it threshed another wood.

          Then, 'twas before my time, the Roman
           At yonder heaving hill would stare:
          The blood that warms an English yeoman,
           The thoughts that hurt him, they were there.

          There, like the wind through woods in riot,
           Through him the gale of life blew high;
          The tree of man was never quiet:
           Then 'twas the Roman, now 'tis I.

          The gale, it plies the saplings double,
           It blows so hard, 'twill soon be gone:
          To-day the Roman and his trouble
           Are ashes under Uricon.

          From far, from eve and morning
           And yon twelve-winded sky,
          The stuff of life to knit me
           Blew hither: here am I.

          Now- for a breath I tarry
           Nor yet disperse apart-
          Take my hand quick and tell me,
           What have you in your heart.

          Speak now, and I will answer;
           How shall I help you, say;
          Ere to the wind's twelve quarters
           I take my endless way.

          If truth in hearts that perish
           Could move the powers on high,
          I think the love I bear you
           Should make you not to die.

          Sure, sure, if stedfast meaning,
           If single thought could save,
          The world might end to-morrow,
           You should not see the grave.

          This long and sure-set liking,
           This boundless will to please,
          -Oh, you should live for ever
           If there were help in these.

          But now, since all is idle,
           To this lost heart be kind,
          Ere to a town you journey
           Where friends are ill to find.


           "Oh, sick I am to see you, will you never let me be?
          You may be good for something, but you are not good for me.
          Oh, go where you are wanted, for you are not wanted here." 
          And that was all the farewell when I parted from my dear.

          "I will go where I am wanted, to a lady born and bred
          Who will dress me free for nothing in a uniform of red;
          She will not be sick to see me if I only keep it clean:
          I will go where I am wanted for a soldier of the Queen."

          "I will go where I am wanted, for the sergeant does not mind;
          He may be sick to see me but he treats me very kind:
          He gives me beer and breakfast and a ribbon for my cap,
          And I never knew a sweetheart spend her money on a chap."

          "I will go where I am wanted, where there's room for one or two,
          And the men are none too many for the work there is to do;
          Where the standing line wears thinner and the dropping dead lie thick;
          And the enemies of England they shall see me and be sick."

          On the idle hill of summer,
           Sleepy with the flow of streams,
          Far I hear the steady drummer
           Drumming like a noise in dreams.

          Far and near and low and louder
           On the roads of earth go by,
          Dear to friends and food for powder,
           Soldiers marching, all to die.

          East and west on fields forgotten
           Bleach the bones of comrades slain,
          Lovely lads and dead and rotten;
           None that go return again.

          Far the calling bugles hollo,
           High the screaming fife replies,
          Gay the files of scarlet follow:
           Woman bore me, I will rise.

          White in the moon the long road lies,
           The moon stands blank above;
          White in the moon the long road lies
           That leads me from my love.

          Still hangs the hedge without a gust,
           Still, still the shadows stay:
          My feet upon the moonlit dust
           Pursue the ceaseless way.

          The world is round, so travellers tell,
           And straight though reach the track,
          Trudge on, trudge on, 'twill all be well,
           The way will guide one back.

          But ere the circle homeward hies
           Far, far must it remove:
          White in the moon the long road lies
           That leads me from my love.

           As through the wild green hills of Wyre
          The train ran, changing sky and shire,
          And far behind, a fading crest,
          Low in the forsaken west
          Sank the high-reared head of Clee,
          My hand lay empty on my knee.
          Aching on my knee it lay:
          That morning half a shire away
          So many an honest fellow's fist
          Had well-nigh wrung it from the wrist.
          Hand, said I, since now we part
          From fields and men we know by heart,
          From strangers' faces, strangers' lands,-
          Hand, you have held true fellows' hands.
          Be clean then; rot before you do
          A thing they'd not believe of you.
          You and I must keep from shame
          In London streets the Shropshire name;
          On banks of Thames they must not say
          Severn breeds worse men than they;
          And friends abroad must bear in mind
          Friends at home they leave behind.
          Oh, I shall be stiff and cold
          When I forget you, hearts of gold;
          The land where I shall mind you not
          Is the land where all's forgot.
          And if my foot returns no more
          To Teme nor Corve nor Severn shore,
          Luck, my lads, be with you still
          By falling stream and standing hill,
          By chiming tower and whispering tree,
          Men that made a man of me.
          About your work in town and farm
          Still you'll keep my head from harm,
          Still you'll help me, hands that gave
          A grasp to friend me to the grave.

          The winds out of the west land blow,
           My friends have breathed them there;
          Warm with the blood of lads I know
           Comes east the sighing air.

          It fanned their temples, filled their lungs,
           Scattered their forelocks free;
          My friends made words of it with tongues
           That talk no more to me.

          Their voices, dying as they fly,
           Thick on the wind are sown;
          The names of men blow soundless by,
           My fellows' and my own.

          Oh lads, at home I heard you plain,
           But here your speech is still,
          And down the sighing wind in vain
           You hollo from the hill.

          The wind and I, we both were there,
           But neither long abode;
          Now through the friendless world we fare
           And sigh upon the road.

          'Tis time, I think by Wenlock town
           The golden broom should blow;
          The hawthorn sprinkled up and down
           Should charge the land with snow.

          Spring will not wait the loiterer's time
           Who keeps so long away;
          So others wear the broom and climb
           The hedgerows heaped with may.

          Oh tarnish late on Wenlock Edge,
           Gold that I never see;
          Lie long, high snowdrifts in the hedge
           That will not shower on me.

          Into my heart an air that kills
           From yon far country blows:
          What are those blue remembered hills,
           What spires, what farms are those?

          That is the land of lost content,
           I see it shining plain,
          The happy highways where I went
           And cannot come again.

           In my own shire, if I was sad
          Homely comforters I had:
          The earth, because my heart was sore,
          Sorrowed for the son she bore;
          And standing hills, long to remain,
          Shared their short-lived comrade's pain.
          And bound for the same bourn as I,
          On every road I wandered by,
          Trod beside me, close and dear,
          The beautiful and death-struck year:
          Whether in the woodland brown
          I heard the beechnut rustle down,
          And saw the purple crocus pale
          Flower about the autumn dale;
          Or littering far the fields of May
          Lady-smocks a-bleaching lay,
          And like a skylit water stood
          The bluebells in the azured wood.

           Yonder, lightening other loads,
          The seasons range the country roads,
          But here in London streets I ken
          No such helpmates, only men;
          And these are not in plight to bear,
          If they would, another's care.
          They have enough as 'tis: I see
          In many an eye that measures me
          The mortal sickness of a mind
          Too unhappy to be kind.
          Undone with misery, all they can
          Is to hate their fellow man;
          And till they drop they needs must still
          Look at you and wish you ill.


          Once in the wind of morning
           I ranged the thymy wold;
          The world-wide air was azure
           And all the brooks ran gold.

          There through the dews beside me
           Behold a youth that trod,
          With feathered cap on forehead,
           And poised a golden rod.

          With mien to match the morning
           And gay delightful guise
          And friendly brows and laughter
           He looked me in the eyes.

          Oh whence, I asked, and whither?
           He smiled and would not say,
          And looked at me and beckoned
           And laughed and led the way.

          And with kind looks and laughter
           And nought to say beside
          We two went on together,
           I and my happy guide.

          Across the glittering pastures
           And empty upland still
          And solitude of shepherds
           High in the folded hill,

          By hanging woods and hamlets
           That gaze through orchards down
          On many a windmill turning
           And far-discovered town,

          With gay regards of promise
           And sure unslackened stride
          And smiles and nothing spoken
           Led on my merry guide.

          By blowing realms of woodland
           With sunstruck vanes afield
          And cloud-led shadows sailing
           About the windy weald,

          By valley-guarded granges
           And silver waters wide,
          Content at heart I followed
           With my delightful guide.

          And like the cloudy shadows
           Across the country blown
          We two face on for ever,
           But not we two alone.

          With the great gale we journey
           That breathes from gardens thinned,
          Borne in the drift of blossoms
           Whose petals throng the wind;

          Buoyed on the heaven-heard whisper
           Of dancing leaflets whirled
          From all the woods that autumn
           Bereaves in all the world.

          And midst the fluttering legion
           Of all that ever died
          I follow, and before us
           Goes the delightful guide,

          With lips that brim with laughter
           But never once respond,
          And feet that fly on feathers,
           And serpent-circled wand.


          When I meet the morning beam,
          Or lay me down at night to dream,
          I hear my bones within me say,
          "Another night, another day."

          "When shall this slough of sense be cast,
          This dust of thoughts be laid at last,
          The man of flesh and soul be slain
          And the man of bone remain?"

          "This tongue that talks, these lungs that shout,
          These thews that hustle us about,
          This brain that fills the skull with schemes,
          And its humming hive of dreams,-"

          "These to-day are proud in power
          And lord it in their little hour:
          The immortal bones obey control
          Of dying flesh and dying soul."

          " 'Tis long till eve and morn are gone:
          Slow the endless night comes on,
          And late to fulness grows the birth
          That shall last as long as earth."

          "Wanderers eastward, wanderers west,
          Know you why you cannot rest?
          'Tis that every mother's son
          Travails with a skeleton."

          "Lie down in the bed of dust;
          Bear the fruit that bear you must;
          Bring the eternal seed to light,
          And morn is all the same as night."

          "Rest you so from trouble sore,
          Fear the heat o' the sun no more,
          Nor the snowing winter wild,
          Now you labour not with child."

          "Empty vessel, garment cast,
          We that wore you long shall last.
          -Another night, another day."
          So my bones within me say.

          Therefore they shall do my will
          To-day while I am master still,
          And flesh and soul, now both are strong,
          Shall hale the sullen slaves along,

          Before this fire of sense decay,
          This smoke of thought blow clean away,
          And leave with ancient night alone
          The stedfast and enduring bone.

          Shot? so quick, so clean an ending?
           Oh that was right, lad, that was brave:
          Yours was not an ill for mending,
           'Twas best to take it to the grave.

          Oh you had forethought, you could reason,
           And saw your road and where it led,
          And early wise and brave in season
           Put the pistol to your head.

          Oh soon, and better so than later
           After long disgrace and scorn,
          You shot dead the household traitor,
           The soul that should not have been born.

          Right you guessed the rising morrow
           And scorned to tread the mire you must:
          Dust's your wages, son of sorrow,
           But men may come to worse than dust.

          Souls undone, undoing others,-
           Long time since the tale began.
          You would not live to wrong your brothers:
           Oh lad, you died as fits a man.

          Now to your grave shall friend and stranger
           With ruth and some with envy come:
          Undishonoured, clear of danger,
           Clean of guilt, pass hence and home.

          Turn safe to rest, no dreams, no waking;
           And here, man, here's the wreath I've made:
          'Tis not a gift that's worth the taking,
           But wear it and it will not fade.

          If it chance your eye offend you,
           Pluck it out, lad, and be sound:
          'Twill hurt, but here are salves to friend you,
           And many a balsam grows on ground.

          And if your hand or foot offend you,
           Cut it off, lad, and be whole;
          But play the man, stand up and end you,
           When your sickness is your soul.

           Bring, in this timeless grave to throw,
          No cypress, sombre on the snow;
          Snap not from the bitter yew
          His leaves that live December through;
          Break no rosemary, bright with rime
          And sparkling to the cruel clime;
          Nor plod the winter land to look
          For willows in the icy brook
          To cast them leafless round him: bring
          No spray that ever buds in spring.

           But if the Christmas field has kept
          Awns the last gleaner overstept,
          Or shrivelled flax, whose flower is blue
          A single season, never two;
          Or if one haulm whose year is o'er
          Shivers on the upland frore,
          -Oh, bring from hill and stream and plain
          Whatever will not flower again,
          To give him comfort: he and those
          Shall bide eternal bedfellows
          Where low upon the couch he lies
          Whence he never shall arise.


          "Here the hangman stops his cart:
          Now the best of friends must part.
          Fare you well, for ill fare I:
          Live, lads, and I will die."

          "Oh, at home had I but stayed
          'Prenticed to my father's trade,
          Had I stuck to plane and adze,
          I had not been lost, my lads."

          "Then I might have built perhaps
          Gallows-trees for other chaps,
          Never dangled on my own,
          Had I but left ill alone."

          "Now, you see, they hang me high,
          And the people passing by
          Stop to shake their fists and curse;
          So 'tis come from ill to worse."

          "Here hang I, and right and left
          Two poor fellows hang for theft:
          All the same's the luck we prove,
          Though the midmost hangs for love."

          "Comrades all, that stand and gaze,
          Walk henceforth in other ways;
          See my neck and save your own:
          Comrades all, leave ill alone."

          "Make some day a decent end,
          Shrewder fellows than your friend.
          Fare you well, for ill fare I:
          Live, lads, and I will die."

          Be still, my soul, be still; the arms you bear are brittle,
           Earth and high heaven are fixt of old and founded strong.
          Think rather,-call to thought, if now you grieve a little,
           The days when we had rest, O soul, for they were long.

          Men loved unkindness then, but lightless in the quarry
           I slept and saw not; tears fell down, I did not mourn;
          Sweat ran and blood sprang out and I was never sorry:
           Then it was well with me, in days ere I was born.

          Now, and I muse for why and never find the reason,
           I pace the earth, and drink the air, and feel the sun.
          Be still, be still, my soul; it is but for a season:
           Let us endure an hour and see injustice done.

          Ay, look: high heaven and earth ail from the prime foundation;
           All thoughts to rive the heart are here, and all are vain:
          Horror and scorn and hate and fear and indignation-
           Oh why did I awake? when shall I sleep again?

          Think no more, lad; laugh, be jolly:
           Why should men make haste to die?
          Empty heads and tongues a-talking
          Make the rough road easy walking,
          And the feather pate of folly
           Bears the falling sky.

          Oh, 'tis jesting, dancing, drinking
           Spins the heavy world around.
          If young hearts were not so clever,
          Oh, they would be young for ever:
          Think no more; 'tis only thinking
           Lays lads underground.

           Clunton and Clunbury,
           Clungunford and Clun,
          Are the quietest places
           Under the sun. 

          In valleys of springs of rivers,
           By Ony and Teme and Clun,
          The country for easy livers,
           The quietest under the sun,

          We still had sorrows to lighten,
           One could not be always glad,
          And lads knew trouble at Knighton
           When I was a Knighton lad.

          By bridges that Thames runs under,
           In London, the town built ill,
          'Tis sure small matter for wonder
           If sorrow is with one still.

          And if as a lad grows older
           The troubles he bears are more,
          He carries his griefs on a shoulder
           That handselled them long before.

          Where shall one halt to deliver
           This luggage I'd lief set down?
          Not Thames, not Teme is the river,
           Nor London nor Knighton the town:

          'Tis a long way further than Knighton,
           A quieter place than Clun,
          Where doomsday may thunder and lighten
           And little 'twill matter to one.

           Loitering with a vacant eye
          Along the Grecian gallery,
          And brooding on my heavy ill,
          I met a statue standing still.
          Still in marble stone stood he,
          And stedfastly he looked at me.
          "Well met," I thought the look would say,
          "We both were fashioned far away;
          We neither knew, when we were young,
          These Londoners we live among."

           Still he stood and eyed me hard,
          An earnest and a grave regard:
          "What, lad, drooping with your lot?
          I too would be where I am not.
          I too survey that endless line
          Of men whose thoughts are not as mine.
          Years, ere you stood up from rest,
          On my neck the collar prest;
          Years, when you lay down your ill,
          I shall stand and bear it still.
          Courage, lad, 'tis not for long:
          Stand, quit you like stone, be strong."
          So I thought his look would say;
          And light on me my trouble lay,
          And I slept out in flesh and bone
          Manful like the man of stone.

          Far in a western brookland
           That bred me long ago
          The poplars stand and tremble
           By pools I used to know.

          There, in the windless night-time,
           The wanderer, marvelling why,
          Halts on the bridge to hearken
           How soft the poplars sigh.

          He hears: long since forgotten
           In fields where I was known,
          Here I lie down in London
           And turn to rest alone.

          There, by the starlit fences,
           The wanderer halts and hears
          My soul that lingers sighing
           About the glimmering weirs.

          THE TRUE LOVER

          The lad came to the door at night,
           When lovers crown their vows,
          And whistled soft and out of sight
           In shadow of the boughs.

          "I shall not vex you with my face
           Henceforth, my love, for aye;
          So take me in your arms a space
           Before the east is grey."

          "When I from hence away am past
           I shall not find a bride,
          And you shall be the first and last
           I ever lay beside."

          She heard and went and knew not why;
           Her heart to his she laid;
          Light was the air beneath the sky
           But dark under the shade.

          "Oh do you breathe, lad, that your breast
           Seems not to rise and fall,
          And here upon my bosom prest
           There beats no heart at all?"

          "Oh loud, my girl, it once would knock,
           You should have felt it then;
          But since for you I stopped the clock
           It never goes again."

          "Oh lad, what is it, lad, that drips
           Wet from your neck on mine?
          What is it falling on my lips,
           My lad, that tastes of brine?"

          "Oh like enough 'tis blood, my dear,
           For when the knife has slit
          The throat across from ear to ear
           'Twill bleed because of it."

          Under the stars the air was light
           But dark below the boughs,
          The still air of the speechless night,
           When lovers crown their vows.

          With rue my heart is laden
           For golden friends I had,
          For many a rose-lipt maiden
           And many a lightfoot lad.

          By brooks too broad for leaping
           The lightfoot boys are laid;
          The rose-lipt girls are sleeping
           In fields where roses fade.

          Westward on the high-hilled plains
           Where for me the world began,
          Still, I think, in newer veins
           Frets the changeless blood of man.

          Now that other lads than I
           Strip to bathe on Severn shore,
          They, no help, for all they try,
           Tread the mill I trod before.

          There, when hueless is the west
           And the darkness hushes wide,
          Where the lad lies down to rest
           Stands the troubled dream beside.

          There, on thoughts that once were mine,
           Day looks down the eastern steep,
          And the youth at morning shine
           Makes the vow he will not keep.


          "Far I hear the bugle blow
          To call me where I would not go,
          And the guns begin the song,
          'Soldier, fly or stay for long.'"

          "Comrade, if to turn and fly
          Made a soldier never die,
          Fly I would, for who would not?
          'Tis sure no pleasure to be shot."

          "But since the man that runs away
          Lives to die another day,
          And cowards' funerals, when they come
          Are not wept so well at home."

          "Therefore, though the best is bad,
          Stand and do the best my lad;
          Stand and fight and see your slain,
          And take the bullet in your brain."

          You smile upon your friend to-day,
           To-day his ills are over;
          You hearken to the lover's say,
           And happy is the lover.

          'Tis late to hearken, late to smile,
           But better late than never:
          I shall have lived a little while
           Before I die for ever.

          When I came last to Ludlow
           Amidst the moonlight pale,
          Two friends kept step beside me,
           Two honest lads and hale.

          Now Dick lies long in the churchyard,
           And Ned lies long in jail,
          And I come home to Ludlow
           Amidst the moonlight pale.


          The star-filled seas are smooth to-night
           From France to England strown;
          Black towers above the Portland light
           The felon-quarried stone.

          On yonder island, not to rise,
           Never to stir forth free,
          Far from his folk a dead lad lies
           That once was friends with me.

          Lie you easy, dream you light,
           And sleep you fast for aye;
          And luckier may you find the night
           Than ever you found the day.

          Now hollow fires burn out to black,
           And lights are guttering low:
          Square your shoulders, lift your pack,
           And leave your friends and go.

          Oh never fear, man, nought's to dread,
           Look not left nor right:
          In all the endless road you tread
           There's nothing but the night.


          The vane on Hughley steeple
           Veers bright, a far-known sign,
          And there lie Hughley people,
           And there lie friends of mine.
          Tall in their midst the tower
           Divides the shade and sun,
          And the clock strikes the hour
           And tells the time to none.

          To south the headstones cluster,
           The sunny mounds lie thick;
          The dead are more in muster
           At Hughley than the quick.
          North, for a soon-told number,
           Chill graves the sexton delves,
          And steeple-shadowed slumber
           The slayers of themselves.

          To north, to south, lie parted,
           With Hughley tower above,
          The kind, the single-hearted,
           The lads I used to love.
          And, south or north, 'tis only
           A choice of friends one knows,
          And I shall ne'er be lonely
           Asleep with these or those.

           "Terence, this is stupid stuff:
          You eat your victuals fast enough;
          There can't be much amiss, 'tis clear,
          To see the rate you drink your beer.
          But oh, good Lord, the verse you make,
          It gives a chap the belly-ache.
          The cow, the old cow, she is dead;
          It sleeps well, the horned head:
          We poor lads, 'tis our turn now
          To hear such tunes as killed the cow.
          Pretty friendship 'tis to rhyme
          Your friends to death before their time
          Moping melancholy mad:
          Come, pipe a tune to dance to, lad."

           Why, if 'tis dancing you would be,
          There's brisker pipes than poetry.
          Say, for what were hop-yards meant,
          Or why was Burton built on Trent?
          Oh many a peer of England brews
          Livelier liquor than the Muse,
          And malt does more than Milton can
          To justify God's ways to man.
          Ale, man, ale's the stuff to drink
          For fellows whom it hurts to think:
          Look into the pewter pot
          To see the world as the world's not.
          And faith, 'tis pleasant till 'tis past:
          The mischief is that 'twill not last.
          Oh I have been to Ludlow fair
          And left my necktie God knows where,
          And carried half-way home, or near,
          Pints and quarts of Ludlow beer:
          Then the world seemed none so bad,
          And I myself a sterling lad;
          And down in lovely muck I've lain,
          Happy till I woke again.
          Then I saw the morning sky:
          Heigho, the tale was all a lie;
          The world, it was the old world yet,
          I was I, my things were wet,
          And nothing now remained to do
          But begin the game anew.

           Therefore, since the world has still
          Much good, but much less good than ill,
          And while the sun and moon endure
          Luck's a chance, but trouble's sure,
          I'd face it as a wise man would,
          And train for ill and not for good.
          'Tis true the stuff I bring for sale
          Is not so brisk a brew as ale:
          Out of a stem that scored the hand
          I wrung it in a weary land.
          But take it: if the smack is sour,
          The better for the embittered hour;
          It should do good to heart and head
          When your soul is in my soul's stead;
          And I will friend you, if I may,
          In the dark and cloudy day.

           There was a king reigned in the East:
          There, when kings will sit to feast,
          They get their fill before they think
          With poisoned meat and poisoned drink.
          He gathered all that springs to birth
          From the many-venomed earth;
          First a little, thence to more,
          He sampled all her killing store;
          And easy, smiling, seasoned sound,
          Sate the king when healths went round.
          They put arsenic in his meat
          And stared aghast to watch him eat;
          They poured strychnine in his cup
          And shook to see him drink it up:
          They shook, they stared as white's their shirt:
          Them it was their poison hurt.
          -I tell the tale that I heard told.
          Mithridates, he died old.

          I Hoed and trenched and weeded,
           And took the flowers to fair:
          I brought them home unheeded;
           The hue was not the wear.

          So up and down I sow them
           For lads like me to find,
          When I shall lie below them,
           A dead man out of mind.

          Some seed the birds devour,
           And some the season mars,
          But here and there will flower
           The solitary stars,

          And fields will yearly bear them
           As light-leaved spring comes on,
          And luckless lads will wear them
           When I am dead and gone.

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