Poem by Alfred Edward Housman

More Poems. 19. The Mill-Stream, Now that Noises Cease

The mill-stream, now that noises cease,
Is all that does not hold its peace;
Under the bridge it murmurs by,
And here are night and hell and I.

Who made the world I cannot tell:
’Tis made, and here I am in hell.
My hand, though now my knuckles bleed,
I never soiled with such a deed.

And so, no doubt, in time gone by
Some have suffered more than I,
Who only spend the night alone
And strike my fist upon the stone.

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