Poem by Alfred Edward Housman

Last Poems. 15. Eight O'Clock

He stood, and heard the steeple
        Sprinkle the quarters on the morning town.
One, two, three, four, to market-place and people
        It tossed them down.

Strapped, noosed, nighing his hour,
        He stood and counted them and cursed his luck;
And then the clock collected in the tower
        Its strength, and struck.

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Last Poems

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