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XXXVII - As through the wild green hills of Wyre
As through the wild green hills of Wyre  
The train ran, changing sky and shire,  
And far behind, a fading crest,  
Low in the forsaken west  
Sank the high-reared head of Clee,         
My hand lay empty on my knee.  
Aching on my knee it lay:  
That morning half a shire away  
So many an honest fellow’s fist  
Had well-nigh wrung it from the wrist.         
Hand, said I, since now we part  
From fields and men we know by heart,  
For strangers’ faces, strangers’ lands,—  
Hand, you have held true fellows’ hands.  
Be clean then; rot before you do         
A thing they’d not believe of you.  
You and I must keep from shame  
In London streets the Shropshire name;  
On banks of Thames they must not say  
Severn breeds worse men than they;         
And friends abroad must bear in mind  
Friends at home they leave behind.  
Oh, I shall be stiff and cold  
When I forget you, hearts of gold;  
The land where I shall mind you not         
Is the land where all’s forgot.  
And if my foot returns no more  
To Teme nor Corve nor Severn shore,  
Luck, my lads, be with you still  
By falling stream and standing hill,         
By chiming tower and whispering tree,  
Men that made a man of me.  
About your work in town and farm  
Still you’ll keep my head from harm,  
Still you’ll help me, hands that gave         
A grasp to friend me to the grave.  

A.E. Housman, A Shropshire Lad
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