Alfred Edward Housman

More Poems. 14. The Farms of Home Lie Lost in Even

The farms of home lie lost in even,
        I see far off the steeple stand;
West and away from here to heaven,
        Still is the land.

There if I go no girl will greet me,
        No comrade hollo from the hill,
No dog run down the yard to meet me:
        The land is still.

The land is still by farm and steeple,
        And still for me the land may stay:
There I was friends with perished people,
        And there lie they.