The Author A. E. Housman

A Shropshire Lad - XIV

by


    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.

0

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 - XIV to your own personal library.

Return to the A. E. Housman Home Page, or . . . Read the next poem; A Shropshire Lad - XIX - To An Athlete Dying Young

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