Last Poems by A. E. Housman

XXVI

 
     The half-moon westers low, my love,
         And the wind brings up the rain;
     And wide apart lie we, my love,
         And seas between the twain.
 
 
     I know not if it rains, my love,
         In the land where you do lie;
     And oh, so sound you sleep, my love,
         You know no more than I.
 

XXVII

 
     The sigh that heaves the grasses
         Whence thou wilt never rise
     Is of the air that passes
         And knows not if it sighs.
 
 
     The diamond tears adorning
         Thy low mound on the lea,
     Those are the tears of morning,
         That weeps, but not for thee.
 

XXVIII

 
     Now dreary dawns the eastern light,
         And fall of eve is drear,
     And cold the poor man lies at night,
         And so goes out the year.
 
 
     Little is the luck I've had,
         And oh, 'tis comfort small
     To think that many another lad
         Has had no luck at all.
 

XXIX

 
     Wake not for the world-heard thunder
         Nor the chime that earthquakes toll.
     Star may plot in heaven with planet,
     Lightning rive the rock of granite,
     Tempest tread the oakwood under:
         Fear not you for flesh nor soul.
     Marching, fighting, victory past,
     Stretch your limbs in peace at last.
 
 
     Stir not for the soldiers drilling
         Nor the fever nothing cures:
     Throb of drum and timbal's rattle
     Call but man alive to battle,
     And the fife with death-notes filling
         Screams for blood but not for yours.
     Times enough you bled your best;
     Sleep on now, and take your rest.
 
 
     Sleep, my lad; the French are landed,
         London's burning, Windsor's down;
     Clasp your cloak of earth about you,
     We must man the ditch without you,
     March unled and fight short-handed,
         Charge to fall and swim to drown.
     Duty, friendship, bravery o'er,
     Sleep away, lad; wake no more.
 

XXX. SINNER'S RUE

 
     I walked alone and thinking,
         And faint the nightwind blew
     And stirred on mounds at crossways
         The flower of sinner's rue.
 
 
     Where the roads part they bury
         Him that his own hand slays,
     And so the weed of sorrow
         Springs at the four cross ways.
 
 
     By night I plucked it hueless,
         When morning broke 'twas blue:
     Blue at my breast I fastened
         The flower of sinner's rue.
 
 
     It seemed a herb of healing,
         A balsam and a sign,
     Flower of a heart whose trouble
         Must have been worse than mine.
 
 
     Dead clay that did me kindness,
         I can do none to you,
     But only wear for breastknot
         The flower of sinner's rue.
 

XXXI. HELL'S GATE

 
         Onward led the road again
     Through the sad uncoloured plain
     Under twilight brooding dim,
     And along the utmost rim
     Wall and rampart risen to sight
     Cast a shadow not of night,
     And beyond them seemed to glow
     Bonfires lighted long ago.
     And my dark conductor broke
     Silence at my side and spoke,
     Saying, "You conjecture well:
     Yonder is the gate of hell."
 
 
         Ill as yet the eye could see
     The eternal masonry,
     But beneath it on the dark
     To and fro there stirred a spark.
     And again the sombre guide
     Knew my question, and replied:
     "At hell gate the damned in turn
     Pace for sentinel and burn."
 
 
         Dully at the leaden sky
     Staring, and with idle eye
     Measuring the listless plain,
     I began to think again.
     Many things I thought of then,
     Battle, and the loves of men,
     Cities entered, oceans crossed,
     Knowledge gained and virtue lost,
     Cureless folly done and said,
     And the lovely way that led
     To the slimepit and the mire
     And the everlasting fire.
     And against a smoulder dun
     And a dawn without a sun
     Did the nearing bastion loom,
     And across the gate of gloom
     Still one saw the sentry go,
     Trim and burning, to and fro,
     One for women to admire
     In his finery of fire.
     Something, as I watched him pace,
     Minded me of time and place,
     Soldiers of another corps
     And a sentry known before.
 
 
         Ever darker hell on high
     Reared its strength upon the sky,
     And our footfall on the track
     Fetched the daunting echo back.
     But the soldier pacing still
     The insuperable sill,
     Nursing his tormented pride,
     Turned his head to neither side,
     Sunk into himself apart
     And the hell-fire of his heart.
     But against our entering in
     From the drawbridge Death and Sin
     Rose to render key and sword
     To their father and their lord.
     And the portress foul to see
     Lifted up her eyes on me
     Smiling, and I made reply:
     "Met again, my lass," said I.
     Then the sentry turned his head,
     Looked, and knew me, and was Ned.
 
 
         Once he looked, and halted straight,
     Set his back against the gate,
     Caught his musket to his chin,
     While the hive of hell within
     Sent abroad a seething hum
     As of towns whose king is come
     Leading conquest home from far
     And the captives of his war,
     And the car of triumph waits,
     And they open wide the gates.
     But across the entry barred
     Straddled the revolted guard,
     Weaponed and accoutred well
     From the arsenals of hell;
     And beside him, sick and white,
     Sin to left and Death to right
     Turned a countenance of fear
     On the flaming mutineer.
     Over us the darkness bowed,
     And the anger in the cloud
     Clenched the lightning for the stroke;
     But the traitor musket spoke.
 
 
         And the hollowness of hell
     Sounded as its master fell,
     And the mourning echo rolled
     Ruin through his kingdom old.
     Tyranny and terror flown
     Left a pair of friends alone,
     And beneath the nether sky
     All that stirred was he and I.
 
 
         Silent, nothing found to say,
     We began the backward way;
     And the ebbing luster died
     From the soldier at my side,
     As in all his spruce attire
     Failed the everlasting fire.
     Midmost of the homeward track
     Once we listened and looked back;
     But the city, dusk and mute,
     Slept, and there was no pursuit.