on change and fortune 
And all the feats I vowed
When I was young and proud. 
The weathercock at sunset 
Would lose the slanted ray,
And I would climb the beacon 
That looked to Wales away
And saw the last of day. 
From hill and cloud and heaven 
The hues of evening died;
Night welled through lane and hollow 
And hushed the countryside,
But I had youth and pride. 
And I with earth and nightfall 
In converse high would stand,
Late, till the west was ashen 
And darkness hard at hand,
And the eye lost the land. 
The year might age, and cloudy
The lessening day might close,
But air of other summers 
Breathed from beyond the snows,
And I had hope of those. 
They came and were and are not 
And come no more anew;
And all the years and seasons 
That ever can ensue
Must now be worse and few. 
So here’s an end of roaming 
On eves when autumn nighs:
The ear too fondly listens 
For summer’s parting sighs,
And then the heart replies. 
XL 
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. 
XLI 
FANCY’S KNELL 
When lads were home from labour 
At Abdon under Clee,
A man would call his neighbor 
And both would send for me.
And where the light in lances 
Across the mead was laid,
There to the dances 
I fetched my flute and played. 
Ours were idle pleasures, 
Yet oh, content we were,
The young to wind the measures,
The old to heed the air;
And I to lift with playing 
From tree and tower and steep
The light delaying, 
And flute the sun to sleep. 
The youth toward his fancy 
Would turn his brow of tan,
And Tom would pair with Nancy 
And Dick step off with Fan;
The girl would lift her glances 
To his, and both be mute:
Well went the dances 
At evening to the flute. 
Wenlock Edge was umbered, 
And bright was Abdon Burf,
And warm between them slumbered 
The smooth green miles of turf;
Until from grass and clover 
The upshot beam would fade,
And England over 
Advanced the lofty shade. 
The lofty shade advances, 
I fetch my flute and play:
Come, lads, and learn the dances 
And praise the tune to-day.
To-morrow, more’s the pity, 
Away we both must hie,
To air the ditty, 
End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Last Poems, by A. E. Housman 
0. END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LAST POEMS 
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