XXXVII
As through the wild green hills of Wyre
The train ran, sky and shire,
And far behind, a fading crest,
Low in the forsaken west
Sank the high-reared head of Clee,
My hand lay empty on my knee.
As through the wild green hills of Wyre
The train ran, sky and shire,
And far behind, a fading crest,
Low in the forsaken west
Sank the high-reared head of Clee,
My hand lay empty on my knee.
AE Housman - A Shropshire Lad
