by A. E. Housman
There pass the careless people That call their souls their own: Here by the road I loiter, How idle and alone.
Ah, past the plunge of plummet, In seas I cannot sound, My heart and soul and senses, World without end, are drowned.
His folly has not fellow Beneath the blue of day That gives to man or woman His heart and soul away.
There flowers no balm to sain him From east of earth to west That's lost for everlasting The heart out of his breast.
Here by the labouring highway With empty hands I stroll: Sea-deep, till doomsday morning, Lie lost my heart and soul.