by A. E. Housman
From far, from eve and morning
 And yon twelve-winded sky,
The stuff of life to knit me
 Blew hither: here am I.
Now— for a breath I tarry
 Nor yet disperse apart—
Take my hand quick and tell me,
 What have you in your heart.
Speak now, and I will answer;
 How shall I help you, say;
Ere to the wind's twelve quarters
 I take my endless way.