A Shropshire Lad

Name: A Shropshire Lad
Author: Housman, A. E. (Alfred Edward)

Housman, A. E. (Alfred Edward)

Shropshire (England) -- Poetry

"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.



          XLIV

          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.



          XLV

          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.



          XLVI

Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.

A Shropshire Lad

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