The Author A. E. Housman

A Shropshire Lad - XXXVIII


    The winds out of the west land blow,
    My friends have breathed them there;
    Warm with the blood of lads I know
    Comes east the sighing air.

    It fanned their temples, filled their lungs,
    Scattered their forelocks free;
    My friends made words of it with tongues
    That talk no more to me.

    Their voices, dying as they fly,
    Thick on the wind are sown;
    The names of men blow soundless by,
    My fellows' and my own.

    Oh lads, at home I heard you plain,
    But here your speech is still,
    And down the sighing wind in vain
    You hollo from the hill.

    The wind and I, we both were there,
    But neither long abode;
    Now through the friendless world we fare
    And sigh upon the road.


facebook share button twitter share button google plus share button tumblr share button reddit share button email share button share on pinterest pinterest

Create a library and add your favorite stories. Get started by clicking the "Add" button.
Add A Shropshire Lad - XXXVIII to your own personal library.

Return to the A. E. Housman Home Page, or . . . Read the next poem; As I gird on for fighting

Anton Chekhov
Nathaniel Hawthorne
Susan Glaspell
Mark Twain
Edgar Allan Poe
Mary E. Wilkins Freeman
Herman Melville
Stephen Leacock
Kate Chopin
Bjørnstjerne Bjørnson