Crossing alone the nighted ferry
With the one coin for fee,
Whom, on the wharf of Lethe waiting,
Count you to find? Not me.
The brisk fond lackey to fetch and carry,
The true, sick-hearted slave,
Expect him not in the just city
And free land of the grave.
More verses by Alfred Edward Housman
- Xlvii: For My Funeral
- Xxii: The Sloe Was Lost In Flower
- Xxxv: When First My Way To Fair I Took
- The Nonsense Verse
- Xviii: The Rain It Streams On Stone And Hillock