A Shropshire Lad by A. E. Housman
page 41 of 67 (61%)
page 41 of 67 (61%)
|
The hawthorn sprinkled up and down
Should charge the land with snow. Spring will not wait the loiterer's time Who keeps so long away; So others wear the broom and climb The hedgerows heaped with may. Oh tarnish late on Wenlock Edge, Gold that I never see; Lie long, high snowdrifts in the hedge That will not shower on me. XL Into my heart an air that kills From yon far country blows: What are those blue remembered hills, What spires, what farms are those? That is the land of lost content, I see it shining plain, The happy highways where I went And cannot come again. XLI |
|