ALFRED EDWARD HOUSMAN
'Twould blow like this through holt and hanger
When Uricon the city stood: 'Tis the old wind in the old anger,
But then it threshed another wood.
Then, 'twas before my time, the Roman At yonder heaving hill would stare.
The blood that warms an English yeoman,
The thoughts that hurt him, they were there.
There, like the wind through woods in riot, Through him the gale of life blew high;
The tree of man was never quiet: Then 'twas the Roman, now 'tis I.
The gale, it plicb the saplings double, It blows so hard, 'twill soon be gone:
To-day the Roman and his trouble Are allies under Uncon.
<Is My Team Ploughing?*
- TTS my team ploughing,
A That I wab ubed to drive And hear the harness jingle When I was man alive?'
Ay, the horbes trample, The harness jingles now;
No change though you lie under The land you used to plough.
'Is football playing
Along the river shore, With lads to chabe the leather,
Now I stand up no more? '
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