Poem by Alfred Edward Housman

A Shropshire Lad. 48. Be Still, My Soul, Be Still

Be still, my soul, be still; the arms you bear are brittle,
Earth and high heaven are fixt of old and founded strong.
Think rather,-- call to thought, if now you grieve a little,
The days when we had rest, O soul, for they were long.

Men loved unkindness then, but lightless in the quarry
I slept and saw not; tears fell down, I did not mourn;
Sweat ran and blood sprang out and I was never sorry:
Then it was well with me, in days ere I was born.

Now, and I muse for why and never find the reason,
I pace the earth, and drink the air, and feel the sun.
Be still, be still, my soul; it is but for a season:
Let us endure an hour and see injustice done.

Ay, look: high heaven and earth ail from the prime foundation;
All thoughts to rive the heart are here, and all are vain:
Horror and scorn and hate and fear and indignation--
Oh why did I awake? when shall I sleep again? 

1. More Poems. 33. On Forelands High in Heaven
2. Last Poems. 39. When Summer’s End Is Nighing
3. Last Poems. 20. The Night Is Freezing Fast
4. More Poems. 39. My Dreams Are of a Field Afar
5. A Shropshire Lad. 56. The Day of Battle

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