[Housman was old beyond his years]

Housman was old beyond his years

knowing at twenty

the fleeting seasons in their beauty

would not again appear

often enough.  At sixty

that’s something all of us can see.

For Housman, spring’s whitening

—fair enough.

One can’t do better for a love,

but each of us to bless him

has, in whatever season,

a flower-love that seems his own.

I love white spring, love the colours

of autumn, but

my sweetheart-flower these have not:

childheart (while the swallow

settles down, the cuckoo’s

voice breaks) hedge-reborn, the rose.