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A. E. Housman

Last Poems XXVII

The sigh that heaves the grasses
Whence thou wilt never rise
Is of the air that passes
And knows not if it sighs.
The diamond tears adorning
Thy low mound on the lea,
Those are the tears of morning,
That weeps, but not for thee.

Last Poems XXVI

The half-moon westers low, my love,
And the wind brings up the rain,
And wide apart lie we, my love,
And seas between the twain.
I know not if it rains, my love,
In the land where you do lie;
And oh, so sound you sleep, my love,
You know no more than I.

Here dead we lie

Here dead lie we because we did not choose
to live and shame the land from which we sprung
Life to be sure Is nothing much to lose
but young men think it is and we were young