A Shropshire Lad/The winds out of the west land blow
XXXVIII
The winds out of the west land blow,My friends have breathed them there;Warm with the blood of lads I knowComes east the sighing air.
It fanned their temples, filled their lungs,Scattered their forelocks free;My friends made words of it with tonguesThat talk no more to me.
Their voices, dying as they fly,Thick on the wind are sown;The names of men blow soundless by,My fellows' and my own.
Oh lads, at home I heard you plain,But here your speech is still,And down the sighing wind in vainYou hollo from the bill.
The wind and I, we both were there,But neither long abode;Now through the friendless world we fareAnd sigh upon the road.
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