A.E. Housman (1859–1936)

I walked alone and thinking,

        And faint the nightwind blew

And stirred on mounds at crossways

        The flower of sinner’s rue.

Where the roads part they bury

        Him that his own hand slays,

And so the weed of sorrow

        Springs at the four cross ways.

By night I plucked it hueless,

        When morning broke ’twas blue:

Blue at my breast I fastened

        The flower of sinner’s rue.

It seemed a herb of healing,

        A balsam and a sign,

Flower of a heart whose trouble

        Must have been worse than mine.

Dead clay that did me kindness,

        I can do none to you,

But only wear for breastknot

        The flower of sinner’s rue.