by A. E. Housman
Westward on the high-hilled plains Where for me the world began, Still, I think, in newer veins Frets the changeless blood of man.
Now that other lads than I Strip to bathe on Severn shore, They, no help, for all they try, Tread the mill I trod before.
There, when hueless is the west And the darkness hushes wide, Where the lad lies down to rest Stands the troubled dream beside.
There, on thoughts that once were mine, Day looks down the eastern steep, And the youth at morning shine Makes the vow he will not keep.