Sinner’s Rue

by A. E. Housman

　　

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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.

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