Poems From "A Shropshire Lad" - XLI

In my own shire, if I was sad     Homely comforters I had:     The earth, because my heart was sore,     Sorrowed for the son she bore;     And standing hills, long to remain,     Shared their short-lived comrade's pain.     And bound for the same bourn as I,     On every road I wandered by,     Trod beside me, close and dear,     The beautiful and death-struck year:     Whether in the woodland brown     I heard the beechnut rustle down,     And saw the purple crocus pale     Flower about the autumn dale;     Or littering far the fields of May     Lady-smocks a-bleaching lay,     And like a skylit water stood     The bluebells in the azured wood.     Yonder, lightening other loads,     The seasons range the country roads,     But here in London streets I ken     No such helpmates, only men;     And these are not in plight to bear,     If they would, another's care.     They have enough as 'tis: I see     In many an eye that measures me     The mortal sickness of a mind     Too unhappy to be kind.     Undone with misery, all they can     Is to hate their fellow man;     And till they drop they needs must still     Look at you and wish you ill.