Poem by Alfred Edward Housman

A Shropshire Lad. 35. On the Idle Hill of Summer

On the idle hill of summer,
 Sleepy with the flow of streams,
Far I hear the steady drummer
 Drumming like a noise in dreams.

Far and near and low and louder
 On the roads of earth go by,
Dear to friends and food for powder,
 Soldiers marching, all to die.

East and west on fields forgotten
 Bleach the bones of comrades slain,
Lovely lads and dead and rotten;
 None that go return again.

Far the calling bugles hollo,
 High the screaming fife replies,
Gay the files of scarlet follow:
 Woman bore me, I will rise.

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