by A. E. Housman
Shot? so quick, so clean an ending? Oh that was right, lad, that was brave: Yours was not an ill for mending, 'Twas best to take it to the grave.
Oh you had forethought, you could reason, And saw your road and where it led, And early wise and brave in season Put the pistol to your head.
Oh soon, and better so than later After long disgrace and scorn, You shot dead the household traitor, The soul that should not have been born.
Right you guessed the rising morrow And scorned to tread the mire you must: Dust's your wages, son of sorrow, But men may come to worse than dust.
Souls undone, undoing others,— Long time since the tale began. You would not live to wrong your brothers: Oh lad, you died as fits a man.
Now to your grave shall friend and stranger With ruth and some with envy come: Undishonoured, clear of danger, Clean of guilt, pass hence and home.
Turn safe to rest, no dreams, no waking; And here, man, here's the wreath I've made: 'Tis not a gift that's worth the taking, But wear it and it will not fade.