Last Poems by A. E. Housman

XIII. THE DESERTER

 
     "What sound awakened me, I wonder,
         For now 'tis dumb."
     "Wheels on the road most like, or thunder:
         Lie down; 'twas not the drum.:
 
 
     "Toil at sea and two in haven
         And trouble far:
     Fly, crow, away, and follow, raven,
         And all that croaks for war."
 
 
     "Hark, I heard the bugle crying,
         And where am I?
     My friends are up and dressed and dying,
         And I will dress and die."
 
 
     "Oh love is rare and trouble plenty
         And carrion cheap,
     And daylight dear at four-and-twenty:
         Lie down again and sleep."
 
 
     "Reach me my belt and leave your prattle:
         Your hour is gone;
     But my day is the day of battle,
         And that comes dawning on.
 
 
     "They mow the field of man in season:
         Farewell, my fair,
     And, call it truth or call it treason,
         Farewell the vows that were."
 
 
     "Ay, false heart, forsake me lightly:
         'Tis like the brave.
     They find no bed to joy in rightly
         Before they find the grave.
 
 
     "Their love is for their own undoing.
         And east and west
     They scour about the world a-wooing
         The bullet in their breast.
 
 
     "Sail away the ocean over,
         Oh sail away,
     And lie there with your leaden lover
         For ever and a day."
 

XIV. THE CULPRIT

 
     The night my father got me
         His mind was not on me;
     He did not plague his fancy
         To muse if I should be
         The son you see.
 
 
     The day my mother bore me
         She was a fool and glad,
     For all the pain I cost her,
         That she had borne the lad
         That borne she had.
 
 
     My mother and my father
         Out of the light they lie;
     The warrant would not find them,
         And here 'tis only I
         Shall hang so high.
 
 
     Oh let not man remember
         The soul that God forgot,
     But fetch the county kerchief
         And noose me in the knot,
         And I will rot.
 
 
     For so the game is ended
         That should not have begun.
     My father and my mother
         They had a likely son,
         And I have none.
 

XV. EIGHT O'CLOCK

 
     He stood, and heard the steeple
         Sprinkle the quarters on the morning town.
     One, two, three, four, to market-place and people
         It tossed them down.
 
 
     Strapped, noosed, nighing his hour,
         He stood and counted them and cursed his luck;
     And then the clock collected in the tower
         Its strength, and struck.
 

XVI. SPRING MORNING

 
     Star and coronal and bell
         April underfoot renews,
     And the hope of man as well
         Flowers among the morning dews.
 
 
     Now the old come out to look,
         Winter past and winter's pains.
     How the sky in pool and brook
         Glitters on the grassy plains.
 
 
     Easily the gentle air
         Wafts the turning season on;
     Things to comfort them are there,
         Though 'tis true the best are gone.
 
 
     Now the scorned unlucky lad
         Rousing from his pillow gnawn
     Mans his heart and deep and glad
         Drinks the valiant air of dawn.
 
 
     Half the night he longed to die,
         Now are sown on hill and plain
     Pleasures worth his while to try
         Ere he longs to die again.
 
 
     Blue the sky from east to west
         Arches, and the world is wide,
     Though the girl he loves the best
         Rouses from another's side.
 

XVII. ASTRONOMY

 
     The Wain upon the northern steep
         Descends and lifts away.
     Oh I will sit me down and weep
         For bones in Africa.
 
 
     For pay and medals, name and rank,
         Things that he has not found,
     He hove the Cross to heaven and sank
         The pole-star underground.
 
 
     And now he does not even see
         Signs of the nadir roll
     At night over the ground where he
         Is buried with the pole.
 

XVIII

 
     The rain, it streams on stone and hillock,
         The boot clings to the clay.
     Since all is done that's due and right
     Let's home; and now, my lad, good-night,
         For I must turn away.
 
 
     Good-night, my lad, for nought's eternal;
         No league of ours, for sure.
     Tomorrow I shall miss you less,
     And ache of heart and heaviness
         Are things that time should cure.
 
 
     Over the hill the highway marches
         And what's beyond is wide:
     Oh soon enough will pine to nought
     Remembrance and the faithful thought
         That sits the grave beside.
 
 
     The skies, they are not always raining
         Nor grey the twelvemonth through;
     And I shall meet good days and mirth,
     And range the lovely lands of earth
         With friends no worse than you.
 
 
     But oh, my man, the house is fallen
         That none can build again;
     My man, how full of joy and woe
     Your mother bore you years ago
         To-night to lie in the rain.