Last Poems by A. E. Housman

XL

 
     Tell me not here, it needs not saying,
         What tune the enchantress plays
     In aftermaths of soft September
         Or under blanching mays,
     For she and I were long acquainted
         And I knew all her ways.
 
 
     On russet floors, by waters idle,
         The pine lets fall its cone;
     The cuckoo shouts all day at nothing
         In leafy dells alone;
     And traveler's joy beguiles in autumn
         Hearts that have lost their own.
 
 
     On acres of the seeded grasses
         The changing burnish heaves;
     Or marshalled under moons of harvest
         Stand still all night the sheaves;
     Or beeches strip in storms for winter
         And stain the wind with leaves.
 
 
     Possess, as I possessed a season,
         The countries I resign,
     Where over elmy plains the highway
         Would mount the hills and shine,
     And full of shade the pillared forest
         Would murmur and be mine.
 
 
     For nature, heartless, witless nature,
         Will neither care nor know
     What stranger's feet may find the meadow
         And trespass there and go,
     Nor ask amid the dews of morning
         If they are mine or no.
 

XLI. FANCY'S KNELL

 
     When lads were home from labour
         At Abdon under Clee,
     A man would call his neighbor
         And both would send for me.
     And where the light in lances
         Across the mead was laid,
     There to the dances
         I fetched my flute and played.
 
 
     Ours were idle pleasures,
         Yet oh, content we were,
     The young to wind the measures,
         The old to heed the air;
     And I to lift with playing
         From tree and tower and steep
     The light delaying,
         And flute the sun to sleep.
 
 
     The youth toward his fancy
         Would turn his brow of tan,
     And Tom would pair with Nancy
         And Dick step off with Fan;
     The girl would lift her glances
         To his, and both be mute:
     Well went the dances
         At evening to the flute.
 
 
     Wenlock Edge was umbered,
         And bright was Abdon Burf,
     And warm between them slumbered
         The smooth green miles of turf;
     Until from grass and clover
         The upshot beam would fade,
     And England over
         Advanced the lofty shade.
 
 
     The lofty shade advances,
         I fetch my flute and play:
     Come, lads, and learn the dances
         And praise the tune to-day.
     To-morrow, more's the pity,
         Away we both must hie,
     To air the ditty,
         And to earth I.