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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 season 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.

A.E. Housman, A Shropshire Lad

Tags:

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

season

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









A

E



Housman



A

Shropshire

Lad



 Good Luck!