The Author A. E. Housman

Tell me not here, it needs not saying


    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.


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