| A.E. Housman... |
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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. |
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Who made the world I cannot tell; 'Tis made, and here am I in hell. My hand, though now my knuckles bleed, I never soiled with such a deed. |
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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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