ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF A YOUNG MAN

A lad of the Shires that is come to his own;
As springtime, so short, is the season for wane—
But long be his buried thistle blown,
When spring is no more to the flower, nor scene.

Bring a pitcher of dreams, I will pour out the dew,
For the hearts of the lost are unyielding but kind;
Let the earth that you left have a glimpse of you,
And the trees that mourn shall remember behind.

• A E Housman