Tell me not here, it needs not saying, <br />What tune the enchantress plays <br />In aftermaths of soft September <br />Or under blanching mays, <br />For she and I were long acquainted <br />And I knew all her ways. <br /> <br />On russet floors, by waters idle, <br />The pine lets fall its cone; <br />The cuckoo shouts all day at nothing <br />In leafy dells alone; <br />And traveller’s joy beguiles in autumn <br />Hearts that have lost their own. <br /> <br />On acres of the seeded grasses <br />The changing burnish heaves; <br />Or marshalled under moons of harvest <br />Stand still all night the sheaves; <br />Or beeches strip in storms for winter <br />And stain the wind with leaves. <br /> <br />Posses, as I possessed a season, <br />The countries I resign, <br />Where over elmy plains the highway <br />Would mount the hills and shine, <br />And full of shade the pillared forest <br />Would murmur and be mine. <br /> <br />For nature, heartless, witless nature, <br />Will neither care nor know <br />What stranger’s feet may find the meadow <br />And trespass there and go, <br />Nor ask amid the dews of morning <br />If they are mine or no.<br /><br />Alfred Edward Housman<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/tell-me-not-here-it-needs-not-saying/
