A. E. Housman (1859–1936). A Shropshire Lad. 1896.
XXXVIII. The winds out of the west land blow
T
My friends have breathed them there;
Warm with the blood of lads I know
Comes east the sighing air.
Scattered their forelocks free;
My friends made words of it with tongues
That talk no more to me.
Loose on the wind are sown;
The names of men blow soundless by,
My fellows’ and my own.
But here your speech is still,
And down the sighing wind in vain
You hollo from the hill.
But neither long abode;
Now through the friendless world we fare
And sigh upon the road.