In my own shire, if I was sad, <br />Homely comforters I had: <br />The earth, because my heart was sore, <br />Sorrowed for the son she bore; <br />And standing hills, long to remain, <br />Shared their short-lived comrade's pain. <br />And bound for the same bourn as I, <br />On every road I wandered by, <br />Trod beside me, close and dear, <br />The beautiful and death-struck year: <br />Whether in the woodland brown <br />I heard the beechnut rustle down, <br />And saw the purple crocus pale <br />Flower about the autumn dale; <br />Or littering far the fields of May <br />Lady-smocks a-bleaching lay, <br />And like a skylit water stood <br />The bluebells in the azured wood. <br /> <br />Yonder, lightening other loads, <br />The seasons range the country roads, <br />But here in London streets I ken <br />No such helpmates, only men; <br />And these are not in plight to bear, <br />If they would, another's care. <br />They have enough as 'tis: I see <br />In many an eye that measures me <br />The mortal sickness of a mind <br />Too unhappy to be kind. <br />Undone with misery, all they can <br />Is to hate their fellow man; <br />And till they drop they needs must still <br />Look at you and wish you ill.<br /><br />Alfred Edward Housman<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/in-my-own-shire-if-i-was-sad/
