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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.

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