From Clee to heaven the beacon burns,
Alfred Edward Housman
The Wain upon the northern steep
Be still, my soul, be still; the arms you bear are brittle,
In summertime on Bredon
Bring, in this timeless grave to throw,
Clunton and Clunbury,
He stood, and heard the steeple
These, in the day when heaven was falling,
He is here, Urania's son,
When lads were home from labour
"Farewell to barn and stack and tree,
The Queen she sent to look for me,
Onward led the road again
Her strong enchantments failing,
The vane on Hughley steeple
I Hoed and trenched and weeded,
If it chance your eye offend you,
Oh hard is the bed they have made him,
In midnights of November,
In the morning, in the morning,
"Is my team ploughing,
I 'listed at home for a lancer,
The sun at noon to higher air,
Now dreary dawns the eastern light,
Now hollow fires burn out to black,
Oh fair enough are sky and plain,
Oh, when I was in love with you,
On the idle hill of summer,
On Wenlock Edge the wood's in trouble;
Others, I am not the first,
Wake: the silver dusk returning
West and away the wheels of darkness roll,
I walked alone and thinking,
Soldier from the wars returning,
Star and coronal and bell
Tell me not here, it needs not saying,
"Terence, this is stupid stuff:
"Here the hangman stops his cart:
The night my father got me
"Far I hear the bugle blow
"What sound awakened me, I wonder,
The orchards half the way
The half-moon westers low, my love,
When I meet the morning beam,
The star-filled seas are smooth to-night
The lads in their hundreds to Ludlow come in for the fair,
The laws of God, the laws of man,
'Tis spring; come out to ramble
Once in the wind of morning
"Oh, sick I am to see you, will you never let me be?
The night is freezing fast,
'Tis mute, the word they went to hear on high Dodona mountain
The rain, it streams on stone and hillock,
Leave your home behind, lad,
The sloe was lost in flower,
The street sounds to the soldiers' tread,
The lad came to the door at night,
High the vanes of Shrewsbury gleam
Beyond the moor and the mountain crest
The winds out of the west land blow,
Think no more, lad; laugh, be jolly:
This time of year a twelvemonth past,
'Tis time, I think by Wenlock town
The time you won your town the race
We'll to the woods no more,
When I watch the living meet,
When smoke stood up from Ludlow,
When the eye of day is shut,
When the lad for longing sighs,
White in the moon the long road lies,
Yonder see the morning blink:
You smile upon your friend to-day,