by A. E. Housman
I Hoed and trenched and weeded,
 And took the flowers to fair:
I brought them home unheeded;
 The hue was not the wear.
So up and down I sow them
 For lads like me to find,
When I shall lie below them,
 A dead man out of mind.
Some seed the birds devour,
 And some the season mars,
But here and there will flower
 The solitary stars,
And fields will yearly bear them
 As light-leaved spring comes on,
And luckless lads will wear them
 When I am dead and gone.