Last Poems (Housman)/The rain, it streams on stone and hillock

by Alfred Edward Housman

XVIII

The rain, it streams on stone and hillock, The boot clings to the clay.Since all is done that's due and rightLet's home; and now, my lad, good-night, For I must turn away.

Good-night, my lad, for nought's eternal; No league of ours, for sure.To-morrow I shall miss you less,And ache of heart and heaviness. Are things that time should cure.

Over the hill the highway marches And what's beyond is wide:Oh soon enough will pine to noughtRemembrance and the faithful thought That sits the grave beside.

The skies, they are not always raining Nor grey the twelvemonth through;And I shall meet good days and mirth,And range the lovely lands of earth With friends no worse than you.

But oh, my man, the house is fallen That none can build again;My man, how full of joy and woeYour mother bore you years ago To-night to lie in the rain.