The Author A. E. Housman

A Shropshire Lad - XIV


    There pass the careless people
    That call their souls their own:
    Here by the road I loiter,
    How idle and alone.

    Ah, past the plunge of plummet,
    In seas I cannot sound,
    My heart and soul and senses,
    World without end, are drowned.

    His folly has not fellow
    Beneath the blue of day
    That gives to man or woman
    His heart and soul away.

    There flowers no balm to sain him
    From east of earth to west
    That's lost for everlasting
    The heart out of his breast.

    Here by the labouring highway
    With empty hands I stroll:
    Sea-deep, till doomsday morning,
    Lie lost my heart and soul.


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