One, two, three, four, to market-place and people
It tossed them down.
Strapped, noosed, nighing his hour,
He stood and counted them and cursed his luck;
And then the clock collected in the tower
Its strength, and struck.
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‘Twill hurt, but here are salves to friend you,And many a balsam grows on ground.And if your hand or foot offend you,Cut it off, lad, and be whole;But play the man, stand up and end you,When your sickness is your soul.
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The stroke of midnight ceasesAnd I lie down alone.The rainy Pleiads wester,And seek beyond the seaThe head that I shall dream ofThat will not dream of me.
On the idle hill of summer,
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