63

 I hoed and trenched, dug weeds,
   And took the blooms to fair:
 I brought them home sans heed;
   The hue was not the wear.

 So up and down I sow them
   For lads like me to find
 When I shall lie where grows them,
   A dead man out of mind.

 Some seeds the birds eat soon
   And some the harsh year mars,
 But here and there will bloom
   The sole stars,

 And fields will each year bear them
   As light-leaved spring comes on,
 And lads sans luck will wear them
   When I am dead and gone.

                                -- A.E. House Man

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