The Author A. E. Housman



    The Wain upon the northern steep
    Descends and lifts away.
    Oh I will sit me down and weep
    For bones in Africa.

    For pay and medals, name and rank,
    Things that he has not found,
    He hove the Cross to heaven and sank
    The pole-star underground.

    And now he does not even see
    Signs of the nadir roll
    At night over the ground where he
    Is buried with the pole.


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